Where Is The Edge

Chapter 1

September, 1996

After going to work, I had five hours to let myself do as many things as I could think of. Sometimes I opted to go to the library, and read until dark, visits to the cinema were still something I had to stick to in order to prepare myself for anything, and I really liked my job even though I didn't visualize myself working there for the rest of my life.

I didn't have enough money to go grocery shopping and buy everything I wanted to eat, I didn't have enough money to buy all the books I had read in the library and would like to own so I could read them whenever I wanted without having to return them, the cinema was cheap but most of the time I had to resist the smell of popcorn. Even though I couldn't afford certain things, I was happy to enjoy what I could afford, for they were treasures.

I jumped after hearing that dreadful sound of the doorbell ringing. I thought I had ruined it enough for people to knock the door instead, I had been wrong.

Looking at the sight glass, I found two detectives, and before I could walk and run away to hide, they noticed I was watching them, so I had to take a deep breath and put on my best face.

"Good morning? Can I help you?" I frowned and adopted a confused but relaxed expression. Any individual who has committed a crime of any kind usually freaks out when they see two detectives, even if the detectives have no idea what they've done. I, least of all, could not give myself away in that way.

"Good morning, (Y/N) (Y/L/N), we would like to ask you a few questions regarding the murder of Peter Westerholt," they both showed their IDs. That name made me nauseous, no matter how much time passed.

I kept silent.

The other detective looked at his partner and straightened his posture, "we understand that your mother was his employee, unfortunately she passed away."

She didn't pass away, he killed her! Damn it, it's been months since that man died and no one has forgotten, they are still struggling to find the culprit. And what happened to my mother? In a matter of a day they forgot about it.

"Very well, I hope I can be of help in this situation," I used a hesitant tone, dying to ask why exactly they needed my help and not any other employee or person related to those employees. However, that was going to give me away immediately, the best thing to do was to allow them to ask me the questions and answer as I had practiced.

They both came in. I was going to usher them to the dining table next to the kitchen, but they took a seat on the sofa. Without warning, one of them pulled out a tape recorder, and the other took out a pen with a notebook. I had no choice but to grab a chair and sit across from them.

"All right, as you may know, Peter Westerholt was murdered on 19 December 1995," the other detective paused to clear her throat, "what were you doing that day?"

It was already September of the following year. Nobody would perfectly remember a day so many months ago unless they had done a great deal of activity. I was only supposed to have gone to work that day, stayed at home, then gone to a movie, and returned home.

"Honestly, I don't remember," I sighed, "it's a very exact date, maybe I worked my eight hours and then came home, like every day."

"Do you only do that every day?"

"No, I go out every now and then."

"Do you party or visit recreational places?"

"Yes, clearly, I frequent the cinema, the library, restaurants, the park, very rarely have I gone to a club, only when my workmate invites me," I replied, at this point I was struggling to keep my cool. I couldn't say that I only worked and stayed at home because that would be suspicious, but to say that I went out to various places would be suspicious too.