How to Kill a Man in Thirty Seconds

Chapter 13:His Friends

My jaw hit the floor, fear transforming to disgust. Was he kidding me right now? Could he have been any less straightforward?

Feeling repulsed, I walked over to his table, slamming the paper back onto it.

"No thanks. I'm good," I muttered curtly as he stared back in open-mouthed surprise and astonished. I added, "I think it would be more than a bit weird if I drove home with my psychology teacher." My brow arched, "Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Evans?"

He looked dumbfounded, a pink tinge falling over his face in humiliation.

Shooting him a look of utter disgust, I marched out of the classroom. Just as I did so, I heard the sound of pounding feet down the empty corridor. I turned just in time to spot someone- a boy- disappearing down the empty hallway.

I frowned. Was that Adrian? Had he been eavesdropping?

That night, I lay in bed, thinking, Mr. Evans the last thing on my mind.

Out of all days, my father had disappeared on Christmas Eve. I had always found that a tad bit strange because dad had always made it home on Christmas Eve. I recalled times when he'd cancelled business meetings and even flights to be with us on the holiday. Mum would bake dad's favourite cookies in the oven while dad and I would planted ourselves in front of the television and watch A Christmas Story for the hundredth time, laughing until tears spilled from our eyes. We had always done it when I was little and afterwards, it had been too much of a tradition to stop. I'd have a tub of ice-cream and a packet of crisps tucked next to me as I always did when we watched a movie together, crying out in annoyance when he stole a biscuit or two. But I'd never stop him.

So why on such a festive night, would he await someone in a motel in the middle of nowhere? It had to be something important, something unrelated to work. It had to be a close friend, someone he cared too much for, someone who had urgently needed his help that night.

My heart quickened with the realization.

I could vaguely remember a few friends dropping by when he was alive, but no particular names.

This was precisely why, five minutes later, I found myself in the attic, rummaging through dusty boxes. Just after my father's passing, mum had locked herself up in his room and wept for days, burying herself in every beautiful memory she had of him. I had been too caught up in my own thoughts, drowning in my own emotions to pull her out of her misery. My father had been the one I was closest to; his death had hit me hard.

When mum had finally pulled herself together, she had stuffed everything that was even a slight reminder of him into this attic. It was not what she wanted, but it was necessary.

So I searched, each picture I discovered clogging up my throat and starting up the waterworks once more. Each picture I discovered opened up a door I had been fighting to close for nearly three years, shedding light onto the life I had loved but could have no more.

Finally, when I felt I could take it no longer, my hands wrapped around a photograph. On the blank side, in dad's familiar scrawl were the words: 2006, my best friends and I.

The photo was of five people standing arm in arm, wide grins lighting up their faces, almost as if someone had cracked a joke right before the snapshot. At the centre was my dad, his hair completely brown in this, his eyes gleaming with joy. Standing beside him was Morgan. He appeared a stark contrast from the present, in ripped jeans and a black motorcycle jacket, with his familiar blonde hair an unruly mess. There were two women. One was a petite blonde, her blue eyes crinkling as she laughed and the other was a much taller woman, her raven black hair tumbling over her shoulders, her inky black eyes seeming to stare at me as her lips curled upwards into a thin smile.

My eyes fell on the last man standing beside them and my heart plummeted in my chest.

With jet black hair and familiar beady black eyes which peered down crooked glasses, was Isaac Evans.

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