clandestine

FOUR

As I enter the school building, I find the nearest bathroom and lock myself in a stall. It's just me, alone in a cubicle, my chest heaving, breath quicking. I brace my hand on the wall, eyes brimming with tears. I try to focus on the black and white tiles lining the floor. One, two, I count. It's no use. I'm not in control. My heart rate increases. It was just a conversation with my sister. Just a conversation with my sister. The same sister who used to read me bedtime stories when we were children, naive to the destructiveness of society. The same sister who tore my life apart with her perfect fucking hands, who ripped my soul into shreds and made me watch, salt streaming into my mouth, throat raw and aching as she took away all I cared about. The same sister who protected me.

Our encounter wasn't even something remorseful, one of our infamous screaming matches, ending with us both in tears, feuding over the smallest of things. It wasn't even one of our long conversations, hours spent side by side, hearts on our sleeves, vulnerable as ever. It was just a conversation. A civil, simple conversation in which she seemed concerned about me. Not like she ever could be concerned, there was absolutely no chance, not after all she had done.

The sound of footsteps on the floor snaps me out of my haze, and brings me back to the present, hands shaking against the green walls I've caged myself into. I take a deep breath, two. My erratic breathing slows, and I sit on the closed lid of the toilet, eyes shut, breathing in and out. Feeling as composed as I can be, I walk out of the stall, glaring at my puffy eyes in the mirror opposite me as I'm washing my hands.

From behind me, the dark green door of a stall swings open, and from it, a pair of dark red doc martens walks out, the shoes matching the hair of the individual wearing them.

"Hey Hazel." Faye's face forms a polite smile as she walks to the sink next to me, busing herself by lathering her hands with the minimal soap provided from the shitty dispensers the school refills once a year. Her face is tense, concentrated. I never knew someone could be so invested in hand washing. She quirks an eyebrow at me when senses my eyes on her. I clear my throat, and look away abruptly, focusing on drying my hands with paper towel.

"I'm meeting with Khoi in a few minutes," she says casually, as I'm turning to exit the bathroom, my hand on the brass doorknob of the wooden door. "You can come. You don't have to, but..." she trails off, eyes locked firmly on the floor in front of her, head in a daze.

I contemplate her invitation, disregarding the sharp voices in my head insisting I don't follow her. I don't particularly want to sit through a meeting with a couple of wannabe detectives, but it's either that or face my sister again. It's hardly a choice.

"I'll come."

Faye smiles, and I swear the sun shone brighter in that moment, if only for a second.

𓆙

The library is quiet when we enter, the soft clicking of keyboard keys the only sound distinguishable in the eerie silence. Faye spots Khoi at a table near the back of the library, furthest from the large windows, sandwiched in between a particularly large 'translated classics' bookshelf. He's on his laptop, enthralled by the content within it that he doesn't notice we're there until we each take a seat either side of him.

"Oh. Hey guys," he says, looking up from the glare of his laptop screen.

"Have you found anything about the murders?" Faye asks, face alight with hope. AT this, Khoi shuts his laptop, and stares at the two of us with wide eyes.

"No." He begins, voice somewhat weary. "No, and that's the strange thing."

"'No' as in you can't find anything useful?" Faye asks, concerned.