It has been a year since Annalise Montgomery lost her fifteen year old sister Lilly in the middle of a sunny day when she was waiting in a parking lot.
Annalise takes the case into her control when the police are empty handed. No leads, no traces, n...
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I know I've washed my hands almost twenty three times already, but I find myself washing them again. I don't know why I'm acting so guilty.
It was my choice. Compulsive, but still my choice.
I think it's because as much as I try to tell myself being locked up in the Seamville Police Department isn't so bad, but now that I imagine it, I do not want to be there again for longer. All simply for my compulsive rage.
The smell of gasoline is following me wherever I go. My clothes have been washed twice, one by hand, and the other in the machine. My shoes were wiped down. I spent thirty minutes in the shower washing every inch of my body. And my hands are squeaky clean.
I know it's in my head.
My phone buzzes on the kitchen island whilst I'm drying my hands with a clean paper towel. I glance down at it, realising it's almost twelve o'clock, and Scott Walker has sent me a message to tell me that he's here.
I toss the towel in the trash can before grabbing the things I need. Phone, keys, wallet. It's all I ever need anyway.
A part of me hoped that today's lunch plans with Scott would've canceled itself. Or that his mom at least would drag him by the ear into the precinct. That never happened since Blondie is waiting downstairs.
I leave my apartment, making sure to yank the door handle several times to promise myself that it's definitely locked. It is.
I jog down the stairs, and as usual, I wish we'd be fortunate enough to have an elevator here. I guess for now it's not too bad, but I can image if I'm still stuck here in years time, my ageing bones will not make it up and down the stairs.
As expected, Scott Walker is standing in the parking lot. He's leaning against his midnight black car, with his arms crossed over a dark grey coat that he has on, and under it is a simple black button up shirt.
The last I remember, the boys I went to high school with and see around Seamville all wear almost carbon copy outfits. Hoodies, band tees, jeans or sport shorts, or white tank tops.
For some reason, Scott rarely wears any of it. I don't know if it's because he's a few years older than us or not, but he's always wearing fancy clothes. Coats, slacks, button ups, sweaters, boots. And I can tell they're not cheap brands either.
I guess he was better off- money wise, than most of us in this town.
"Record timing. I almost could think you're excited to see me." Blondie finds it fun to try and tease me. I don't find it amusing. Normally, it ends with either hostility, an insult, or just me telling him to shut up.
"I'm excited for food, not you." The words come out so fluently, like they're rehearsed. I guess they are. I've said so many sarcastic things to Scott Walker over the past few weeks that it's become my first language.
