My Little Murder

Chapter 7 - Confrontation

I managed to finish an English assignment that was due in two weeks time by the time someone came knocking on my door. I was sitting cross-legged on my bed in a pair of bike shorts and a loose black t-shirt that had the Guns 'N' Roses logo on the front. I'd taken my hair out of its neat ponytail and chucked it into a messy bun on my head, and there were papers littering the entire surface of my bed around me.

I glanced up at the door, glaring at it as it knocked. Daring it to knock again.

"Liv," Rye called from the other side of the door. "Come eat; Charlie cooked."

"Not hungry," I shot back bluntly, returning my gaze to the papers in front of me. It was only Friday night, and I was spending it locked away in someone's spare room with papers surrounding me. Although, to be honest, I've lived in Rye's house longer than my own, now, so it kind of feels like my own. Which is weird.

"Yes you are," Rye sighed, jiggling the doorhandle uselessly. "Unlock the door, Liv."

"No thanks," I murmured, taking notes on my English paper so I was prepared in case Ms. Myron made me present it all of a sudden.

"Look, I know you and Charlie had a bit of a scuffle, but she won't tell me why either. She says you won't come out of your room."

"Must've taken a detective to figure that one out," I called back blatantly, my voice muffled from the position my head was tilted in. "I might come out later."

"I'm unlocking the door," Rye announced, and I rolled my eyes.

"Good luck, hot-stuff," I grumbled. The doorhandle rattled in the door for a few moments, in which I'd returned my attention back to my work. But I heard it click after a while, and I sighed impatiently as the door opened and Rye walked in leisurely, his eyes lingering on the papers cluttering my bed. I raised an eyebrow at him.

"Congratulations, you opened the door," I said dryly. "You want a medal too?"

"That'd be nice, yeah," Rye replied in a murmur as he picked up one of the papers from my bed, frowning. "You're doing homework on a Friday night?"

I shrugged helplessly. "I don't know what people my age usually do on Friday nights, okay?" I snapped. "Leave your judgements outside this room, please."

Rye held his hands up in mock innocence. "How was your date?" he asked as he went to lean against the wall beside the door, folding his arms over his chest. I scoffed again.

"It wasn't a date," I sighed through gritted teeth. "I don't see him that way, alright? Can everyone just give it a rest?"

Rye's eyes widened in surprise. "Wow, sorry," he murmured. "Didn't realise it was a touchy subject."

"I'm sorry," I muttered, sighing deeply. "It's just that everyone's getting on my nerve today, and I have a headache, and I kind of just want to be left alone."

Rye pursed his lips, pondering his options. Then, he scratched his head, letting out a yawn.

"Alright," he decided finally, then gestured to my bed. "You might want to find something more fun to do with your Friday nights from now on, by the way; homework is for weeknights, when there's nothing better to do."

With that, he slipped from my room, closing the door gently behind him. I hesitated, then sighed in defeat, gathering all my papers into one neat pile before slipping them into my English folder.

"Friday is a weeknight," I grumbled, glancing at my phone as it beeped. It was Fletcher.

I took my phone with me as I left my room, trudging down the hall as I opened my messages, reading the one I'd just received.