Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall, and Scott's twin sister, Elizabeth McCall... the Golden Trio of Beacon Hills. All was well in the little town, until the night before they start their sophomore year of high school, while on the hunt for a dead body...
"So, this kid's the real killer?" Mr. Stilinski asks skeptically while leaning over, looking at the yearbook we circled Matt's picture in, and laid out on Stiles' desk.
We barely got a chance to breathe before Scott, Stiles and I rushed back to the Stilinski house to inform the Sheriff (well temporary ex-Sheriff if you want to get technical) about Matt being behind all the recent murders.
"Yeah." Stiles confirms.
"No."
"Yes!"
"No." Noah crosses his arms.
Really Papa Stilinski? You seriously thought you could pull a Jedi mind trick on your son and say, "This isn't the killer we're looking for," and he'd just go along with it?
"Dad, come on! Everybody knows that the police look for ways to connect victims in a murder, ok? So, all he had to do is, like, look through their transcripts and figure out which class they all had in common." Stiles says, looking back at Scott and I for backup.
"Yeah, except for the fact that the rave promoter, Kara, wasn't in Harris' class."
"Alright. Ok, you're right. Sorry." He sarcastically sighs, holding his hands up in mock surrender, "Then I guess they dropped the charges against him?"
Stilinski huffs irritably, "No, you know what? They're not dropping the charges. But that doesn't prove anything." Stiles brings both fists up, balled in frustration, and is about to retaliate, but is cut off by his father, "Scott, Elizabeth, do you believe this?"
His son gapes offendedly, and throws his hand up in the air, letting it fall back against his leg.
Scott sheepishly takes the lead, "It's really hard to explain how we know this, but you just gotta trust us."
"We know it's Matt." I pipe in, "I promise you."
My boyfriend nods intensely, "Yeah, he took Harris' car, ok? Look, he knew that if a cop found tire tracks at one of the murders and that if enough of the victims were in Harris' class, that they'd arrest him."
Noah glances between each member of our little trio of stupidity, then sighs, "Alright, fine. I'll allow the remote possibility. But give me a motive. I mean, why would this kid want most of the 2006 swim team and its coach dead?"
"Isn't it obvious?" Stiles holds his arms out, "Our swim team sucks! They haven't won in, like, six years!"
I grab his elbow, gently lowering his arm, "Ok, we don't exactly have a motive yet."
"I mean, come on, does Harris?!"
Our convincing seems to be paying off, because Stilinski is at least sounding more and more open to the idea the longer we talk, "What do you want me to do?" he asks, glancing back at us.
"We need to look at the evidence." My brother steps up.
"Yeah," Noah scoffs, "That would be in the station, where I no longer work."
"Trust me, they'll let you in," Stiles assures him.
The ex-Sheriff stares at his son incredulously, "Trust you?" pointing to said boy.
"Trust... Trust..." My boyfriend stumbles over his words, knowing he's not exactly the most trustworthy when it came to some things.
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