How to Kill a Man in Thirty Seconds

Chapter 29: Winter Is Coming

It was only as the words left my lips that I realized how redundant they sounded.

But what other plausible reason could explain how this person knew so much about me? And even if they did, what reason would they have to send me these gifts, to remind me of the knowledge they carried, unless it was dad himself?

"That's impossible," Oliver cut off my strain of thinking, "He can't be alive. You told me so yourself. You buried him, Charley. You saw his body. I'll show you a picture of it if I have to; it's better than you believing in these lies."

"Eskimo ice cream and The Shadow. That was our thing, Oliver!" I cried, tears slipping from my eyes as confusion filled me, hope and desperation colliding against logic, "No one knew about it expect us. Not my sister, not mum! Only us! And Blue Floyd... we fucking discovered Blue Floyd together. You could say we were the only father and daughter alive to be into the same band. But we were obsessed with it, Ol, until the day he died. And then I couldn't even bear to listen to a single one of their songs again."

I grabbed my friend's hands, looking at him earnestly as the tears welled in my eyes, "This has to mean something, right? Please tell me it has to mean something."

It was when I heard the sound of my voice that I realized I was begging.

My best friend said nothing.

I realized that the look he was giving me was one of complete pity.

I shot backwards as if I had been slapped, flinching as I released his hands in an instant. I had received that look so many times in the past, and there was nothing I hated more.

I had been the posh white girl, who had suddenly lost her rich daddy, and all her riches along with it, left to rot on the streets with her dysfunctional family. How could people not have pitied me? Wherever I had gone, a pity party had followed, so many ready to whisper around and share the tragic story of my father's death and our family's consequent downfall, but none ready to truly help.

"You need to go," I told Oliver, unable to meet his gaze, "I'll figure this out myself."

"No," the word came out harsh, and he grabbed my arm firmly, turning me around to face him. I realized the expression of pity had transformed into one of anger. His jaw was locked and his grey eyes held the sort of steely determination I had only seen in him once before. "You cannot tell me to leave, Charley," he told me decidedly, "Not now. I won't."

When I said nothing, he released my hand and his expression softened as he sighed, "Charley, your father died three years ago. You know it, even though you'd like to imagine he didn't." He paused, "Having understood that, there's two possible reasons behind these gifts. One, is that your father has somehow risen from his grave and is buying these fancy presents for you. Or two, someone- someone who knows him really well- wants to fill you with the hope that he is alive. Because as long as you believe that your father is not dead, you have no reason to find his killer."

"So tell me, Charley," Oliver said in conclusion, "Tell me which is more likely. The first or the second?

There was a sharp release of air from my lips as Oliver's words sank in and my eyes widened with the realisation.

"The second," I whispered.

The leaves on all the trees had begun to turn brown and crisp, dying away. They fell from the trees that had once nurtured them, drifting to the ground where they formed lifeless decaying heaps there.

Autumn was here, and a week had passed since that second gift.

It had left me a lot of time to rethink my suspicions, enough time to realize that Oliver had been right all along.

Dad couldn't be alive.

There were documents locked up away somewhere, describing exactly how his mangled, tattered body had looked when detectives had discovered it. It was dad's face I had looked upon at his funeral three years ago, and no one else's.

I had realized the Blue Floyd t-shirt need not have anything to do with the concert. I had been a fan of the band for years and that had been no secret.

Whoever had sent this was merely an imposter, and quite possibly the killer.

The gifts made one thing a certainty.

Whoever had killed him hadn't been a mere business partner, or a basic criminal out for a fun time. I had always been on the right track; the killer was most definitely a close friend and confidante. And since they were attempting to stop me, I figured I was getting closer to discovering the truth.

No matter, Oliver had informed the police and Kimberly had finally stationed two officers outside our home at all times. Mum had freaked and tightened curfew for me in a totally motherly fashion. Isaac had come over on Sunday and placed double bolts on all the doors for our safety.

Needless to say, I was unhappy about this. With all the surveillance, there was no way I could lure my secret Santa in.

"What are you thinking about?" Adrian's voice brought me out of my thoughts. We were walking back home after school to work on the project.

"How angry I am," I answered honestly.

Adrian misinterpreted my words, "I don't understand, Charley. You work so hard. Why? What are you planning on becoming when you leave school?"

I dragged my attention from my endless dark tirade of thoughts, to him.

"Law," I told him matter-of-factly, "I'm going to become a prosecutor."

He halted. "Why?"

The words I uttered sounded more confident than I truly felt, "Because I'm going to put the monsters that make all our lives miserable behind bars for good. I'm going to make them pay for what they have done."

Adrian's eyes widened, and once again, emotion I couldn't decipher filled them, before he swallowed hard. A long silence followed before he spoke, and when he did, his voice cracked, "We should keep going."

"What about you?" I asked, quickening my pace to keep up with his long legged strides.

We had left the more inhabited areas now, were strolling past roads lined on either side by dense forest. Light drifted in through the trees and the distant chirping of birds filled our ears.

Adrian chucked humorlessly, "Don't expect me to tell you I want to be a firefighter, Charley," he told me, "or some other noble profession like that."

I rolled my eyes dramatically, "Oh, Adrian, you may have your ballsy moments, my friend, but let's face it, if there was a fire, you'd be the first to run." I returned the glare he shot me with a chuckle, "So if not a firefighter, what?"

He remained silent, as if racking his brains for an answer.

"I don't know," he finally admitted, "All I know is that I want to leave town. I want to get out of here and never come back."