The Murder Of Devon Whickers

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<<set $confrontation = 0>> <<set $passive = 0>> The school’s fluorescent lights were dimmed, leaving the already eerie hallways with a gray hue. You held the strap of your messenger bag tightly. The only other noise beside you and Devon’s combined footsteps is a janitor cleaning in some distant classroom. You hum quietly to fill the silence as the two of you make your way to the main doors—now finished with your English Lit project you had been slaving over every day after school for the last week. “Shit.” Devon’s quiet hiss draws you away from the silence, and you pause your steps, turning to look at him with furrowed brows. He gives you an apologetic smile, resituating his loosely hanging backpack. “I totally forgot my chem homework back in my locker. I'll meet you outside in a few, yea?” You nod in lieu of a response, the two of you moving your separate ways; you out to the parking lot where Devon’s beat-up truck is parked, and him to grab his left behind chem homework. The sun has just set, leaving the sticky heat from the day gone with only the coolness of the night remaining. You chew on the inside of your cheek, leaning against the brick building. You count the seconds in your head //…10…20…40…70…154...210.// You stop counting at 800. Devon’s locker is ridiculously close to the main entrance, it would have taken him four minutes at max with the speed he was going. You push yourself off the wall, deciding he had gotten distracted, and it was up to you to retrieve him. You bump the door open with your hip, entering the building once again. [[You decide to call out his name.|1.1][$confrontation += 1]] [[You decide to search for him silently, he must be close.|1.2][$passive += 1]]

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The Murder of Devon Whicker / $chapter

Your current stats are as follows: - Confrontation Points (will decide how your character interacts with certain parts of the story): $confrontation - Passive Points (will decide how your character interacts with certain parts of the story): $passive - Velia Points (will decide what interactions are available to you with Velia and how she reacts to certain choices you make): $velia_points - Ambrose Points (will decide what interactions are available to you with Ambrose and how he reacts to certain choices you make): $ambrose_points - Blaise Points (will decide what interactions are available to you with Blaise and how they react to certain choices you make): $blaise_points

<<set $chapter to "Prologue">> <<set $passive = 0>> <<set $confrontation = 0>> <<set $velia_points = 0>> <<set $blaise_points = 0>> <<set $ambrose_points = 0>>

No answer. You roll your eyes, huffing and making a show of practically stomping down the hall, hoping whatever it is that has him caught up gets finished in the next few seconds before you turn the corner. You turn, a quip ready to berate him for making you wait. Your words are soon forgotten when you see Devon’s locker flung wide open, his bag spilled on the laminate floor. Your face wrinkles in confusion. Why would he leave his bag here? Maybe the janitor had asked for his help…? But still, he would’ve taken his bag and closed his locker. Your heartbeat starts to pick up, lip drawn between your teeth. You could feel in your gut that something was wrong. This was way too strange for it not to be. You crouch above his bag, shoving the papers inside to distract yourself from the nerves. Maybe he had just…run to the bathroom? You swung his bag over your free shoulder, standing and, deciding to try again, “Devon? C’mon this isn't funny.” A muffled noise from behind the side staircase doors draws your attention. You swallow the leftover spit pooling in your mouth, hurrying over to push the double doors open, hoping to find a laughing Devon assuring you everything was fine, and that he just wanted to mess with you. He wasn't the type to do that, but you were praying he had suddenly started. [[Continue...|1 pt 2]]

You frown when you don't immediately see his lanky form barrelling down the hall with his normal assuring laughter. You move down the hall, unable to register any sort of noise that would indicate he was closing his locker up. You turn the corner, eyes darting down to his backpack flung across the laminate flooring. His locker was wide open, looking almost untouched. Your face wrinkles in confusion. Why would he leave his bag here? Maybe the janitor had asked for his help…? But still, he would’ve taken his bag and closed his locker. Your heartbeat starts to pick up, lip drawn between your teeth. You could feel in your gut that something was wrong. This was way too strange for it not to be. You crouch above his bag, shoving the papers inside to distract yourself from the nerves. Maybe he had just…run to the bathroom? You swung his bag over your free shoulder, standing, and holding yourself still— quieting your breathing in order to hopefully hear Devon, wherever he had run off to. A muffled thud snaps your attention to the double doors leading to the side stairwell. You swallow, anxiously making your way towards them, pushing them open hesitantly. You pray to find Devon, smiling at you with his big dimples, perhaps “Got you!” heaved between laughter. Devon wasn't the kind of person to do that…you were hoping he had suddenly started. [[Continue...|1 pt 2]]

When you don't see him right away, your eyes scan the area, trailing down the staircase. Smeared blood lingers on the last few steps, deep red fingerprints a sharp contrast to the gray stone. //What the hell?// This was the part in the horror movie you were meant to run, to go find help. But what if Devon had fallen and gotten hurt? You couldn't just leave him down there. He was your best friend, and horror movies be damned— you wouldn't leave him. You rush down the staircase, your hand holding tightly to the metal railing. “Devon?” No answer. //Fuck fuckfuckfuck//— you whip yourself around the corner, ready to descend the next flight. Your heart stops. You don't think you're breathing. Your hands shake. Because there is Devon, eyes glassy and unfocused, his body sprawled in a heap at the bottom of the stairs. His arm was twisted at an awkward, unnatural angle, blood pooling around his head, the red seeping into his thick curls. You turn, retching on the stone next to you, unable to blink away the vision of Devon’s twisted and mangled body. You should check for a pulse right…? What if he was still alive and you were wasting precious time vomiting your lunch? You drop both the bags, praying you didn't do so in the chunky remains of your caesar salad. You nearly fall down the stairs yourself to get to him, slipping in the blood, your hand catching yourself at the last minute against the wall. You may throw up again. Your fingers press beneath his jaw, waiting a moment, and then two. Nothing. Fuckfuckfuck this couldn't be happening. You drop to your knees, moving his head into your lap, looking for any sign of life. Eyelids fluttering, maybe a quiet groaning? Nothing. You don't even realize you're crying until a large sob wracks your frame. Your hands shake, brushing away Devon's hair from his bloodied face. You're sure you look a sight— skin paled and covered in your best friend's blood. You rock back and forth, the weight of the head in your lap not doing much to ground you. You know you needed to call someone, but you couldn't leave him here. Not like this. Not all broken and bloodied. //Not alone.// And so you sat there. You sat there until morning, not realizing hours had passed until a teacher found you, curled around his body like some fucked up teddy bear. They had to physically rip you away in order for the coroner to collect him. You don't remember much after that, it's all a blur really. But the one thing you do remember is hearing later on from his distraught mother that they had found three stabs between his ribs, something you hadn't noticed before. //Devon Whicker’s death is quickly ruled a homicide.// [[End of Prologue|2]]

<<set $chapter to "Chapter One">> It’s been a week since the funeral. A week since you last saw Devon's face, which once would’ve felt like a lifetime. You weren't sure how they managed to get him to look so peaceful in his casket. Even peaceful, he looked cold and fake. Gone were his dimpled cheeks, and warm dark skin—now he was pale and ashy, nothing but an empty husk of what he used to be. You hadn't left your room other than to use the bathroom since. Your mom periodically brought you meals with apologetic smiles. No amount of showering had removed the feeling of his blood coating your hands, slick and stinging your nose with the smell of copper. You had to return to school, you couldn't let your grades slip any further than they already had, and you needed to graduate to ensure you never had to return there after this year. You don't think you could stomach it. So at seven AM sharp, you managed to pull yourself out of bed, rubbing the leftover remains of sleep from your eyes. You shrug on some clothes you manage to find on your floor, not wanting to bother with any frills on your first day back—an old hoodie and sweatpants should do just fine. You press the back of your hand to your mouth in a yawn, moving about the room to gather whatever remains of schoolwork that needs to be shoved in your backpack. A quick peek in the mirror has you stopping in the bathroom next, examining your face and the obvious dark circles. <<nobr>>Your <<cycle "$skin_tone" autoselect>> <<option "pale">> <<option "beige">> <<option "olive">> <<option "tan">> <<option "brown">> <<option "dark">> <</cycle>><</nobr>> skin is dull from lack of sleep. You splash yourself with some water to try and force the cold to shock some life back into your skin. You go through the motions of brushing your teeth, running a brush through <<nobr>>your <<cycle "$hair_length" autoselect>> <<option "short">> <<option "chin-length">> <<option "shoulder-length">> <<option "long">> <</cycle>><</nobr>> , <<nobr>> <<cycle "$hair_texture" autoselect>> <<option "straight">> <<option "wavy">> <<option "curly">> <<option "coily">> <<option "afro-textured">> <</cycle>><</nobr>> , <<nobr>> <<cycle "$hair_color" autoselect>> <<option "black">> <<option "dark brown">> <<option "light brown">> <<option "blonde">> <<option "ginger">> <<option "red">> <<option "blue">> <<option "purple">> <<option "green">> <<option "yellow">> <<option "pink">> <</cycle>><</nobr>> hair, grimacing when the bristles tug on a tangle. Deeming yourself presentable enough for the masses, you trudge down the stairs, avoiding the concerned looks your parents are shooting your way—your<<nobr>> Mother's <<cycle "$eye_color" autoselect>> <<option "black">> <<option "dark brown">> <<option "hazel">> <<option "green">> <<option "blue">> <<option "gray">> <</cycle>><</nobr>> eyes trailing after you as you meddle around. People used to say the two of you were practically twins when you were younger. Now you're older and know it was merely a matter of you mimicking the expressions of those close to you, but there's no denying the two of you have the same eyes. You sling your bag over your shoulders, grabbed an apple from a bowl in the kitchen, and hurried out front to avoid any conversation or pitiful words. Plopping yourself down on your front stoop, you wait for the telltale noise of Velia Hall’s car approaching your driveway. She honks to grab your attention when she arrives. Although you weren't so wrapped up as to not hear her, you still appreciate the gesture. You slip into her car, throwing your bag in the back seat—the routine feels disgustingly mundane as if two weeks ago your life hadn’t drastically changed for the worse. She gives you a sympathetic smile, her faux locs pulled up in a ponytail, a few of them framing her pretty face. She nods to her cupholder. “I brought you your hot chocolate—extra marshmallows like usual.” You smile in thanks, bringing the to-go cup from the coffee place down the street to your lips. She drums her fingers on the steering wheel, practically rocking back and forth in her seat. You set the cup back in the cupholder, hoping she doesn't mention anything. But of course, life is never that easy. “Hey, I just wanted to say—” she purses her lips as if mulling over what one could possibly say to someone who held the body <<nobr>> of <<cycle "$pronoun_posessive" autoselect>> <<option "their">> <<option "her">> <<option "his">> <<option "it's">> <</cycle>><</nobr>> dying friend. “—That I’m really sorry about y’know…Devon. He was a good guy, and just ignore what people are saying at school. They're just talking out of their asses because of the lack of shit to do in this town.” Your eyebrows pinch together—what have people been saying at school? You had barely even glanced at your phone in your two-week absence, not sure you could handle the fake //“I’m sorry for your loss”// texts. [["What have people been saying at school?" You ask, finding yourself wondeirng.|2.1][$confrontation += 1]] [["Thanks. Just drive, Velia. We're going to be late." You say, giving her an uncomfortable grimace.|2.2][$passive += 1]]

"...$name. I get it. Just know that everyone at school is the worst, don't listen to them.” You don't even bother to ask what they're saying about you, you can assume enough. Velia curses quietly when someone cuts her off, taking the parking spot she had her eye on. She pulls you into one opposite of it, unbuckling painfully slow. You were sort of praying someone decided to run you over as soon as you stepped from the car—maybe a helpful stroke of lightning? Unfortunately, you aren't that lucky. And you make it to the front doors, with a nod in goodbye from Velia, in one piece, clutching your hot chocolate like a lifeline. You can hear the whispers surrounding you the moment you enter, the way everyone suddenly seems to find you fascinating despite not giving you more than a passing glance for the past four years. Perfect. Normally, Devon would be here with you, he would help you face the brunt of the rumor mill. He was abnormally tall, standing at nearly 6”5, and people normally find someone who has to duck to not hit his head on door frames pretty intimidating. Instead, you’re here alone. [[Continue...|2.4]]

<<set $velia_points += 1>> Her eyes widen, tongue briefly wetting her plum-painted lips. She clears her throat, shifting the car into drive while she begins the journey to school, still tapping incessantly on the steering wheel. //Tap. Tap. Tap.// You keep your gaze on her, waiting for her to respond. “It's just—some people are saying that ///you're// the one who pushed him,” her words come out fast and nearly jumbled. You think this is the first time you've seen Velia so flustered, she's normally the unattainable, cool, and collected girl who’s way above your social standing. “Which I told them was //totally// insane, because Devon was stabbed, y’know? Like the fall didn't kill him.” You hum in response, feeling your stomach churn unpleasantly. The last thing you want to do right now is be confronted by judgemental glares. You're sure they're taking you not being present at school as an admission of guilt. That's just the way small towns are, once they latch on to something they won't stop until they've torn it apart. And it looks like you're the newest prey in shark-infested waters. “But…" <<textbox "$name" "Enter your name here:" "2.3">>

She looks like she's going to say something else for a moment, opening her mouth, before deciding against it. She nods, and you feel a pang knowing you've most likely hurt her feelings. The two of you had never been best friends, but she'd always been nice to you despite being way too popular to be associating with you. But being that she lived just down the road, she had offered to drive you to school each morning until you got your license. And here you'd gone, hurting her feelings like some selfish dick. Great. You sunk down into yourself, wrapping your arms around your torso, resting your head on the windowsill to watch the streets pass by. You swallow uncomfortably, flicking your tongue over your chapped lips. “I didn't mean to be me, Ve. I’m sorry, it's just been a long couple of weeks.” You finally speak up just before the two of you turn into the parking lot. She quickly darts her eyes towards you before looking away, giving you a soft smile. “Don't worry, <<textbox "$name" "Enter your name here:" "2.5">>,"

“$name, just know that I’m here for you, whatever you need.” You swallow, her words flying over your head. In a matter of minutes, the two of you pull into the cramped parking lot. Velia cursed quietly when someone cut her off, taking the parking spot she had her eye on. She pulls you into one opposite of it, unbuckling painfully slow. You were sort of praying someone decided to run you over as soon as you stepped from the car—maybe a helpful stroke of lightning? Unfortunately, you aren't that lucky. And you make it to the front doors, with a nod in goodbye from Velia, in one piece, clutching your hot chocolate like a lifeline. You can hear the whispers surrounding you the moment you enter, the way everyone suddenly seems to find you fascinating despite not giving you more than a passing glance for the past four years. Perfect. Normally, Devon would be here with you, he would help you face the brunt of the rumor mill. He was abnormally tall, standing at nearly 6”5, and people normally find someone who has to duck to not hit his head on door frames pretty intimidating. Instead, you’re here alone. [[Continue...|2.4]]

You almost jump when someone loops their arm through yours, and you turn, never having been so grateful to see Blaise in your life. Blaise Nieves, aka. The third member of your and Devon’s trio. The two of you had never been as close as you and Devon had, but you still considered them one of your best friends. They bump your hips together, glaring at someone who had decided to snicker during your <<nobr>> arrival. <<cycle "$height" autoselect>> <<option "They have to crane their neck up to look up at you as you're relatively tall (5”7- 6”3+). Something they'd always teased you about. " set $height to "tall">> <<option "They look at you, the two of you being of similar height (5”4-5”7). Something Devon had loved to hold over the two of you (literally)." set $height to "average">> <<option "They looked down at you with a grin, as you were rather short. Something they loved to tease you about. (4”11-5”4)." set $height to "short">> <</cycle>><</nobr>> “There you are, I’ve been trying to text you since the funeral.” They begin to lead you down the hall, to their locker you assume. You give them a guilty smile. “Yea…sorry. I’ve barely touched my phone since. Too much, y’know?” They give you a weird look, unhooking your arms to turn their locker's combination into the lock. “Mm. I know this was harder for you than it probably was for me since you've known him much longer.” You frowned at that. Blaise had only moved to your town the year before, but that didn't mean that Devon meant nothing to them. “Just know what we're feeling is probably similar. And I know I manage to hide it well, what with my perfect looks and all, but—” They swallowed, hand resting on one of their textbooks. They turned to look at you, and for the first time, you could see the pain behind their dark eyes, the tears bubbling up. “I miss him too.” You reach up to rest a hand on their shoulder, giving it a small squeeze. As quickly as the emotion appeared, it's gone. They sniffle briefly, shuffling their chem book into their arms, and slamming their locker shut. “But it's whatever, yea? Just—please pick up your phone every once in a while. I don't want to lose you too.” They grab the hand from their shoulder, interlacing your fingers together with a small smile, their cheeks dimpling. [[You feel your stomach warm, you had always wondered if there was something between you two.|2.6][$confrontation += 1]] [[You give them a thankful smile, letting go of their hand.|2.7][$passive += 1]]

<<set $blaise_points += 1>> You smile at them, your eyes briefly lingering on their hand in yours. You knew this wasn't the time to be questioning the relationship between the two of you, what with everything happening. But you couldn't help but let your mind run off. The two of you had always had a touchy, more flirty friendship, and sometimes you had caught them looking at you—as if maybe they felt something more. You'd be flattered if Blaise had any sort of feelings towards you. Anyone with eyes could see how attractive they were. With their rich brown hair, tan skin, and full eyelashes—you could only //wish// they saw you in a romantic light. They tugged you along by your linked hands since the two of you had first period together. You could still feel everyone’s stares on you, but with Blaise by your side, it wasn't so bad. They exuded confidence, and most knew if they looked at the two of you funny that Blaise would have no issue slashing their tires. So in a strange way, you felt protected. They swung your hands back and forth between you, humming quietly to themselves. “You know, I tried to quit smoking. Since Devon hated it I felt like—” they paused, “like if I stopped I'd be giving him some weird, fucked up last wish.” You raise an eyebrow, knowing that Blaise had attempted to quit dozens of times before, but the minute something stressful happened they were out back with a cigarette between their slim fingers. “Oh yeah? And how'd that work out for you?” They shoot you a glare, no real malice behind it. “Oh shut it. I said I //tried//, didn't I? Wherever Dev is, he should appreciate the effort.” It feels weird for them to talk about him so casually, but you knew that they were just as hurt as you, that this humor was their weird way of coping. So you laughed along, the both of you ignoring how forced and unnatural it sounded. “I'm sure he does.” They stop outside of your classroom, their free hand taping against their thigh. “Wanna come over after school? My ma’s making empanadas for dinner,” Blaise cocks their hip to the side, rolling their eyes when someone makes a show of shoving the two of you from the doorway. You shoot them an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I should probably meet up with Ambrose since I've been gone for two weeks. I feel bad ditching him //again.//” “Ugh. I guess you're right.” They still pouted though, jutting out their bottom lip. “Couldn't you change it to tomorrow? He practically licks the ground you walk on, I’m sure he'd say yes.” You roll your eyes, leaning against one of the lockers next to you. “No, I already canceled on him for two weeks straight. We can hang out tomorrow okay? Just save me some food.” Blaise grinned, moving to poke you in the ribs, snorting when you darted out of the way. “Always, you know my Ma sets a plate aside for you pretty much every dinner.” You nodded, squeezing their shoulder before the two of you made your way into class. [[Continue...|2.8]]

Sometimes you caught Blaise looking at you with something other than friendship in their eyes, but you weren't sure if you felt the same, much less were ready to start anything with the circumstances surrounding you two. They were certainly attractive, but you just wanted things to remain platonic for the moment—not being able to handle any more change in your life right now. They began walking off without another word, and you followed since the two of you having first period together. You could still feel everyone’s stares on you, but with Blaise by your side, it wasn't so bad. They exuded confidence and most knew if they looked at the two of you funny that Blaise would have no issue slashing their tires. So in a strange way, you felt protected. They swung their free hand back and forth while they walked, humming quietly to themselves. “You know, I tried to quit smoking. Since Devon hated it I felt like—” they paused, “like if I stopped I'd be giving him some weird, fucked up last wish.” You raised an eyebrow, knowing that Blaise had attempted to quit dozens of times before, but the minute something stressful happened they were out back with a cigarette between their slim fingers. “Oh yeah? And how’d that work out for you?” They shoot you a glare, no real malice behind it. “Oh shut it. I said I tried, didn't I? Wherever Dev is, he should appreciate the effort.” It feels weird for them to talk about him so casually, but you knew that they were just as hurt as you, that this humor was their weird way of coping. So you laughed along, the both of you ignoring how forced and unnatural it sounded. “I'm sure he does.” They stop outside of your classroom, their hand taping against their thigh. “Wanna come over after school? My ma’s making empanadas for dinner,” Blaise cocks their hip to the side, rolling their eyes when someone makes a show of shoving the two of you from the doorway. You shoot them an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I should probably meet up with Ambrose, since I've been gone two weeks. I feel bad ditching him again.” “Ugh. I guess you're right,” they still pouted though, jutting out their bottom lip. “Couldn't you change it to tomorrow? He practically licks the ground you walk on, I’m sure he'd say yes.” You roll your eyes, leaning against one of the lockers next to you. “No, I already canceled on him for two weeks straight. We can hang tomorrow okay? Just save me some food.” Blaise grinned, moving to poke you in the ribs, snorting when you darted out of the way. “Always, you know my Ma always sets a plate aside for you.” You nodded, squeezing their shoulder before the two of you made your way into class. [[Continue...|2.8]]

Later on, after a day of avoiding everyone's judgmental stares, you duck into the library, claiming your normal spot in the back. You unpack your work, arranging your highlighters and pencils. Ambrose’s tall frame enters the library, his eyes lighting up the minute he sees you. He tugs the bottom of his sweater, sitting in the seat beside you, your thighs bumping. “Hey, didn't think you’d show,” his voice is almost cautious, and he tugs on his bottom lip with his teeth, something you know he does when he's anxious. You give him a soft smile in return, resting your chin on the heel of your palm. “I told you I’d be here, and I am,” you decided to not add any frills to your words. You were <<nobr>> a <<cycle "$gender" autoselect>> <<option "person">> <<option "woman">> <<option "man">> <</cycle>><</nobr>> of your word after all. He hummed in response, busying himself with grabbing the things he needed (mostly correcting pens and sticky notes, but sometimes he'd bring out the occasional wrapped-up brownie he had baked the night previously). Today he had no brownies to give, just his pens and colorful pads of sticky notes. He clapped his hands together, wincing at the noise, his cheeks turning visibly pink at your quiet chuckle. Clearing his throat, the two of you got to work revising everything you needed. It was tedious work, but he didn't seem to mind. While you finished up, you could feel him looking at you through his thick eyelashes, studying you for something you weren't currently aware of. You wouldn't say Ambrose was unpopular by any means, most people liked him, but he didn't really go out of his way to make friends. Except for you, you supposed. And even that you wouldn't really consider a friendship—just something he used to get his daily dose of human contact. And you didn't mind the staring necessarily, but it //was// rather distracting. You set your pencil down, turning your head to address him. “What is it?” He pursed his lips at being caught, swallowing, his prominent adam's apple bobbing as he did so. Another tug of his bottom lip, this time he worried it between his teeth for a few long moments before speaking. “I’ve uh—heard what people have been saying about you. And just know, I don't believe any of it.” He sounded like he was trying to be helpful, maybe even sympathetic, but it came out sort of distorted, like a pale copy of the emotions. You gave him a strange look when he awkwardly gave your shoulder a few pats. “...Thanks.” He nods, eyes still remaining trained on you. You give him a crooked smile, hoping that satisfies whatever curiosity is brewing around in his brain. It does not. [["Spit it out, Ambrose. We haven't got all day."|2.9][$confrontation += 1]] [["Is there...something else you need or...?"|2.10][$passive += 1]]

His face pinched up, all furrowed brows and scrunched nose. You thought he looked a bit like some weird pug mix, in a cute way—sort of. He quickly fixed his expression, wringing his hands out. You could feel his leg bouncing against yours, another nervous tick. You gave him a look, awaiting whatever answer he cared to give you. Any day now. “It's just—a couple of days ago I was at school early, and the cops were poking around. I was just wondering if they had talked to you at all?” That certainly wasn't what you were expecting him to ask. But you suppose it made sense, in a nosy way. “Obviously you don't have to tell me anything, I was just curious.” You moved your eyes back to the math problems on the page in front of you, trying your best to ignore the knot in your gut at the information. “Well, it's only natural that cops poke around a crime scene. And no, they haven't talked to me.” Maybe they had tried—not like you would have known due to your distance from your phone the last few days. If they really cared they could show up at your house. You hoped they didn't though, you didn't need that aspect of your life to remind you of Devon either. You hoped they just left you be, left you to bathe in your own misery and what not. “Oh.” The furrow was back in his light eyebrows. He nodded briefly. “Well okay. I think I would pass out if cops ever tried to talk to me, that's like, my worst nightmare.” He was doing his best to soothe the wound he had opened. You appreciated it. You gave the least forced-sounding laugh you could. “Yea, doesn't sound fun to me either, trust me.” The conversation faded after that, the only words exchanged between you two relating strictly to your revision work. You preferred it that way. He was sweet, but you weren't in the mood to push away his advances at the moment. You packed up just as quietly, giving him a small wave before hurrying through the rain to the bus stop. You knew Velia was long gone by now, and she wouldn't mind giving you a ride, but you needed the time to think. And the anonymity of public transit provided you just that. You flashed the driver your pass, settling into an empty seat near the back, pulling your knees to your chest, watching the houses pass for the few-minute ride. [[Continue...|2.11]]

He gave you a bashful smile, ducking behind his curtain of blonde curls. He wrung out his hands, looking like he was tasting the words he was thinking before he spoke them. His leg bounced against yours, and you bumped your ankle to the edge of his sock, hoping it provided some sort of strange comfort. You let the silence waft over you until he finally decided to speak the words he'd been chewing. “It's just—a couple of days ago I was at school early, and the cops were poking around. I was just wondering if they had talked to you at all?” That certainly wasn't what you were expecting him to ask. But you suppose it made sense, in a nosy way. “Obviously you don't have to tell me anything, I was just curious.” You moved your eyes back to the math problems on the page in front of you, trying your best to ignore the knot in your gut at the information. “Well, it's only natural that cops poke around a crime scene. And no, they haven't talked to me. Not sure what I'd even say if they did.” Maybe they had tried—not like you would have known due to your distance from your phone the last few days. If they really cared they could show up at your house. You hoped they didn't, you didn't need that aspect of your life to remind you of Devon either. You hoped they just left you be, left you to bathe in your own guilt and what not. “Oh.” The furrow was back in his light eyebrows. He nodded briefly. “Well okay. I think I would pass out if cops ever tried to talk to me, that's like, my worst nightmare.” He was doing his best to soothe the wound he had opened. You appreciated it. You gave the least forced-sounding laugh you could. “Yea, doesn't sound fun to me either, trust me.” The conversation faded after that, the only words exchanged between you two relating strictly to your revision work. You missed the small talk, it distracted you from your thoughts and he wasn't a bad companion considering the circumstances. You packed up just as quietly, giving him a small wave and smile before hurrying through the rain to the bus stop. You knew Velia was long gone by now, and she wouldn't mind giving you a ride, but you needed the time to think. And the anonymity of public transit provided you just that. You flashed the driver your pass, settling into an empty seat near the back, pulling your knees to your chest, watching the houses pass for the few-minute ride. [[Continue...|2.11]]

You set your bag near the door, kicked off your shoes, and flexed your toes on the small carpet near the door. You didn't bother to call out that you were home. You knew your Mom should be home from work now, your Dad was a toss-up—sometimes he worked late nights, other times he was home by two. But no matter who was home, you didn't care much. You wanted to curl up under your covers—maybe take a long nap. You had forgotten how draining you found school. Before you are able to make your way upstairs, you hear hushed whispering from the kitchen. You pinched your brows together, ducking your head through the doorway to see what the noise is. Your parents are both seated at the table, engaged in a heated discussion that suddenly stops the minute your presence is realized. You want to dart out the moment both their eyes land on you. You swallow. “$name, we’re so glad your home,” your mom's voice sounds off. Her normal light tone is now dull and rehearsed like she was reading off some ‘talking to your teen’ pamphlet. “We were wondering if we could talk? It's been a while since the three of us have had a chat, hm?” You gave them a wary look, contemplating if you could get out of this. But judging by the look on your Dad’s face—you could not. “Uh, sure,” you cautiously take a seat at the end of the table, your fingers flexing open and closed away from their line of sight. Your dad pushes up his glasses, reaching his fingers up to massage at his temple. He sighs, looking to your mom who gives him an encouraging smile. “We’ve been talking, and we think maybe—maybe its time for you to see a therapist or a counselor of some kind.” He sounds like he's talking to a wild animal he's terrified will spook. Have you seriously been that temperamental over the last few days? “We know you've been through a lot, and we think talking to someone could really help.” Your Mom takes his hand in hers, nodding along with his words. You think she sort of looks like one of those blow-up tubes outside of carwashes with the way her head is jerking around. You aren't exactly sure what to say. You aren't ready to unpack the feelings that come along with holding your best friend's blood-soaked, still-warm body. You aren't sure you ever will be. You push your chair back, standing abruptly—you hate the way your parents flinch. “No, I’m not ready.” Your Mom opens her mouth to speak but you've turned away before she could, hurrying up the stairs and into your room, making sure the door is locked behind you. You want to throw something. Maybe scream? You aren't exactly sure. But you're just //so// fucking angry. Not at your parents (okay, maybe a little), but more at the circumstances. At the fates for taking Devon away from you, leaving you abandoned and alone. You huddle up underneath your covers, the weight comforting— grounding you. You haven't had the heart to cleanse your room of Devon yet. You aren't sure how to pack away the picture of you two at the yearly summer fair last year, Devon’s arm thrown around you, a smiling memory captured in a blurry photograph. You aren't sure if you should throw away his pastel highlighters he left scattered across your desk, or if you should return the t-shirt he had let you borrow while camping just a month prior. You weren't sure of anything anymore, really. Your mind is spinning, and your parents were right about you needing to talk this over. You just didn't want it to be with some therapist you knew nothing about. You shuffle around, reaching for your phone you had left on your nightstand, shooting a quick text out to the one person you knew for sure would reply right away. //‘Ofc, omw!’// [[Continue...|2.12]]

Your parents don't ask any questions when you leave, and you don't offer any answers. You sit yourself on the curb, scuffing your shoe against the dark concrete. And of course, right on time, Velia’s car pulls up in front of you. You give her a small smile as you slide into the front seat, trying to avoid her curious gaze. “So…” She patted the steering wheel a few times. “What are we doing? Like did you have a plan or anything? Is everything okay…we've never really hung out before. Well, like this at least.” You fiddle with a fray on your sleeve, keeping your eyes trained on your lap. In theory, this had seemed like a good idea. Talking everything out was meant to help, right? That's how it always happened in TV shows at least. But in practice, you were a bundle of nerves. What if Velia was only being nice earlier and she hadn't actually believed you hadn't had anything to do with Devoinb’s death? You would hate to be the person who read into someone's merely polite words. You were dragged from your thoughts by Velia resting a hand on your forearm, prompting you to turn to look at her. You give her a grateful tight-lipped smile. “I just— would it be okay if we talked about…the whole Devon thing? My parents want me to talk to them or just,” you make a face, “a therapist or something. And that's obviously not what I want you to feel like or anything so feel free to—” She cuts you with a soft laugh, removing her hand from your arm and returning it to the wheel. “$name, it’s okay. I don't think you're making me your therapist. This is what friends do, they talk about things. Especially shitty things like y’know witnessing a //murder.// And we’re friends, right?” You've never been more grateful for her than you are at this moment. “Yes, friends.” “Perfect. Then I know just the place. How do milkshakes sound?” [[Continue...|2.13]]

As it turns out, milkshakes sounded perfect. She drove the two of you to a small diner on the other side of town, and promptly ordered the both of you strawberry milkshakes with extra whip cream. Once you had a deliciously pink milkshake sitting in front of you, and after a few sips, you knew you were ready to tell her everything. And tell her everything you did. You told her about how guilty you felt—how you thought maybe if you had just gone with him he would be here right now. Or maybe //you// would be the one bleeding out in that stairwell. You hated that either of those options sounded better than what you currently had to deal with. You told her how his blood felt on your hands, how you had to scrub underneath your fingernails that night while trying to choke back sobs. You told her how none of it felt real. This was something that happened to //other// people. Other people who lived in bigger cities. Not small-town kids just waiting to escape to college the next semester. You still felt like Devon was going to climb into your window like he did every Saturday night despite your mom knowing full well what he was doing. You told her how much you missed him, how every second without him here felt like someone was squeezing your lungs in their big, meaty hand. “Shit.” She blinked at you from behind her large, empty, milkshake glass. “I know you've probably heard a shit ton of I’m sorrys…so I’m not going to say that. Even though I am, because seriously, no one should ever have to go through that.” You pursed your lips, nodding. “What I am going to say is…what do you want from me? What would make you feel better right now in this moment?” Her eyebrows were pinched together in concern, dark eyes staring at you with a strange amount of openness you don't think you could ever replicate. “There's no wrong answer, $name.” [["Can I have a hug?" Your voice is quite, unsure if that's pushing it too far. |2.14][$velia_points += 2]] [["You being here is enough. Thank you." You give her a watery smile, shoving down the tears that threaten to prick at your eyes. |2.15][$velia_points += 1]]

She gives you a soft smile, nodding before moving to your side of the booth. She bumped you further in with your hip, turning her body to face yours and wrapping you in her arms. You buried your head in her shoulder, inhaling her floral perfume. A mix of lavender and vanilla. Nothing could be more calming to you than her warmth surrounding you. You aren't sure how long you sit there with her cradling you, but eventually, you pull away, sniffling and wiping at a few stray tears that decided to fall. You give her a smile which she happily returns, her hand moving from your back to your hand, giving it a small squeeze. “Did that help? I can always give you another.” She wiggles her eyebrows with a grin. “I’ve been told I'm an //excellent// hugger.” You snort, shoving her away playfully. Both of your guys’ laughter is interrupted by two large men, stocky with pale skin approaching you. Your stomach lurches when you notice the uniforms—cops. //Shit.// Velia immediately stops laughing, her spine going rigid. You see her panicked expression, the way her hand suddenly has a death grip on yours. Her eyes stay trained on the cops' shoes, not daring to meet their eyes. You hate that two cops simply approaching the both of you in a diner is something she needs to be worried about—you hate that you're worried too. You flick your tongue out over your lips. <<if $confrontation >=3>> “Can we help you officers?” Your voice cuts through the silence like a steak knife to butter. One of them gives you a look over, his face screwing up. He looks like some backyard-bred pug. “Yes. What are the both of you laughing about so late? Your parents know where you are?” His tone is gruff and condescending. You narrow your eyes. “It’s not even five, do you always bother innocent patrons in diners? Or are we just special?” You turn your lips up in a tight smile. Velia gives you a look from the corner of her eyes, squeezing your hand even tighter despite you not knowing that was possible. You know you should stop, you know you should be polite, but you had never been good at keeping quiet. “Funny.” From his tone of voice and the way his face contours at your words, you can tell he thinks it's anything but. The other cop, who's shorter and looks less like he wants to pummel you and Velia to the ground, grabs a notepad from his back pocket, flipping it open. “You that kid we been trying to get a hold of about that murder? What's his name…Daniel White?” He scratches at his jaw, looking bored with the conversation. You flare your nostrils. “//Devon Whickers.// And I don't know, haven't really been taking any phone calls.” “Well if you could come by the station tomorrow anytime after noon we can get your statement. His Mom’s been hassling us. I’m sure it was just a cut and dry accidental death.” He yawns, pressing the back of his hand to his open mouth. His partner snickers at the way you get visibly angrier. Who the hell do these cops think they are? Oh yeah, that's right, cops. “He was stabbed. How is //that// accidental?” You glare at them, praying they don't start an all-out brawl in this diner. “Well, you know how it is with those types of people—” The cop shrugged, shoving his notebook back in his pocket. Velia was shaking beside you, muttering something quietly to herself. “//Those kinds of people?// The hell does that mean?” You snap. You know what they mean. Black people. There had never been a lack of racism in your town, you saw it in the way people clutched their purses when Devon walked past or how you were coincidentally always stopped in stores when you were with him. But you wanted to know if they would be so brazen to say it out loud. “Language. And it doesn't matter, our lunch break is over. Be at the station tomorrow.” The other cop glares right back at you, leaving the diner, his partner not far behind him. Velia’s whole body relaxes the minute they leave, she lets out a relieved sigh, dropping your hand to tug at the end of one of her locs. “You shouldn't have provoked them. That's dangerous, $name.” You know she's right, you should've just kept your mouth shut. But something just overtook you when you heard the way they were speaking about Devon—when you saw the way they looked at Velia. “I know I just…I couldn't let them talk about him like that. And the way they think it's not murder? I thought the coroner ruled it a homicide, but now they're saying it's an accident? It's fucked up.” She runs her hand over her face, tilting her head back to stare up at the shoddy lights of the diner. “I know better than anyone how shitty this town is. But you have to do what they ask or stuff can get ugly fast. Just be careful…okay?” You begrudgingly nod, not able to meet her eyes. She rifles around in her pocket, leaving a few bills on the table to pay for your milkshakes. You hate how stifling the silence is in the parking lot, and you hate even more how the same suffocating silence follows you into her car. She licks her chapped lips, looking over at you. “Did you want me to take you home…? Or we could go back to my place if you er—” She swallowed, looking away. “—Wanted to talk more.” <<else>> You wait for them to speak, not wanting to provoke them, especially with Velia sitting beside you, who knows what they'd do? “What are the both of you laughing about so late? Your parents know where you are?” One of the cops speaks up, his tone gruff and condescending. You can't control the way your nostrils flare at his tone. “Yes, they do.” No, they don't, but how the hell would they know that? “And it’s barely five, sir. Is there a problem with me getting a milkshake with a friend?” “Don't get smart with me.” He snaps, wrinkling up his face like some sort of backyard-bred pug. He looks to Velia, glancing her up and down with a sneer. “And you are?” She doesn't answer right away so he presses his hand to the table, hitting it a few times. “I asked you a question, girl.” She looks up, and your heart brakes at the way you can feel her shaking. This isn't fucking fair. “Velia Hall, sir.” He nods, humming in response. His partner, a shorter man who looks less like he wants to pummel you and Velia into the ground, grabs a small notepad from his back pocket, flipping it to a clean page. He scribbles something down—Velia’s name, you're assuming. “You that kid we been trying to get a hold of about that murder? What's his name…Daniel White?” He scratches at his jaw, looking bored with the conversation. “Devon Whickers.” You correct. He hums noncommitally, scribbling something else down. “And maybe…I’ve been caught up lately. Sorry.” He looks at you slowly, rolling his eye before going back to the yellow notepad. “Well if you could come by the station tomorrow anytime after noon we can get your statement. His Mom’s been hassling us. I’m sure it was just a cut and dry accidental death.” He yawns, pressing the back of his hand to his open mouth. His partner snickers at the way you get visibly more uncomfortable. “He was stabbed. How is //that// accidental?” You glare at them, praying they don't start an all-out brawl in this diner. “Well, you know how it is with those types of people—” The cop shrugged, shoving his notebook back in his pocket. Velia was shaking beside you, muttering something quietly to herself. “//Those kinds of people?// The hell does that mean?” You snap. You're not normally one to lose your temper, normally you prefer to be more passive in your approach. But you refuse to let them brush over Devon’s death as if he isn't important. But you know exactly what they mean. Black people. There had never been a lack of racism in your town, you saw it in the way people clutched their purses when Devon walked past or how you were coincidentally always stopped in stores when you were with him. But you wanted to know if they would be so brazen to say it out loud. “Language. And it doesn't matter, our lunch break is over. Be at the station tomorrow.” The other cop glares right back at you, leaving the diner, his partner not far behind him. Velia’s whole body relaxes the minute they leave, she lets out a relieved sigh, dropping your hand to tug at the end of one of her locs. “You shouldn't have said anything to them. That's dangerous, $name.” You know she's right, you should've just kept your mouth shut. But something just overtook you when you heard the way they were speaking about Devon—when you saw the way they looked at Velia. “I know I just…I couldn't let them talk about him like that. And the way they think it's not murder? I thought the coroner ruled it a homicide, but now they're saying it's an accident? It's fucked up.” She runs her hand over her face, tilting her head back to stare up at the shoddy lights of the diner. “I know better than anyone how shitty this town is. But you have to do what they ask or stuff can get ugly fast. Just be careful…okay?” You begrudgingly nod, not able to meet her eyes. She rifles around in her pocket, leaving a few bills on the table to pay for your milkshakes. You hate how stifling the silence is in the parking lot, and you hate even more how the same suffocating silence follows you into her car. She licks her chapped lips, looking over at you. “Did you want me to take you home…? Or we could go back to my place if you er—” She swallowed, looking away. “—Wanted to talk more.” <</if>> [["Could we go to your place?" You hadnt been inside her house in years, but going home right now sounded like your worst nightmare |2.16][$velia_points += 3]] [["Actually, could you drop me off at the school?" You knew Ambrose would meet you there if you asked, and you really didn't want to be alone right now.|2.17][$ambrose_points += 3]] [["Could you drop me off at this address?" You really didn't want to be alone right now, and you knew Blaise never minded when you dropped by unaccouned.|2.18][$blaise_points += 3]]

“Of course.” She reaches across the table to give your hand a squeeze. “I’ll always be there for my favorite carpool buddy.” She grins, wiggling her eyebrows. You roll your eyes, dropping her hand to kick her shin lightly underneath the table. The both of you burst into fits of giggles as you play footsy under the table, jostling it with the force of your combined movements. You aren’t sure how long the two of you sit there, playing footsy like a bunch of school children, but you do know it’s exactly what you needed in that moment. A slice of childhood to wash away the pain that exists beyond these diner doors. Both of your guys’ laughter is interrupted by two large men, stocky with pale skin approaching you. Your stomach lurches when you notice the uniforms—cops. //Shit.// Velia immediately stops laughing, her spine going rigid. You see her panicked expression, the way her hand suddenly has a death grip on the edge of the table. Her eyes stay trained on the cops' shoes, not daring to meet their eyes. You hate that two cops simply approaching the both of you in a diner is something she needs to be worried about—you hate that you're worried too. You flick your tongue out over your lips. <<if $confrontation >=3>> “Can we help you officers?” Your voice cuts through the silence like a steak knife to butter. One of them gives you a look over, his face screwing up. He looks like some backyard-bred pug. “Yes. What are the both of you laughing about so late? Your parents know where you are?” His tone is gruff and condescending. You narrow your eyes. “It’s not even five, do you always bother innocent patrons in diners? Or are we just special?” You turn your lips up in a tight smile. Velia gives you a look from underneath her eyelashes, squeezing the table tighter. You know you should stop, you know you should be polite, but you had never been good at keeping quiet. “Funny.” From his tone of voice and the way his face contours at your words, you can tell he thinks it's anything but. The other cop, who's shorter and looks less like he wants to pummel you and Velia to the ground, grabs a notepad from his back pocket, flipping it open. “You that kid we been trying to get a hold of about that murder? What's his name…Daniel White?” He scratches at his jaw, looking bored with the conversation. You flare your nostrils. “//Devon Whickers.// And I don't know, haven't really been taking any phone calls.” “Well if you could come by the station tomorrow anytime after noon we can get your statement. His Mom’s been hassling us. I’m sure it was just a cut and dry accidental death.” He yawns, pressing the back of his hand to his open mouth. His partner snickers at the way you get visibly angrier. Who the hell do these cops think they are? Oh yeah, that's right, cops. “He was stabbed. How is //that// accidental?” You glare at them, praying they don't start an all-out brawl in this diner. “Well, you know how it is with those types of people—” The cop shrugged, shoving his notebook back in his pocket. Velia was shaking in front of you, muttering something quietly to herself. “//Those kinds of people?// The hell does that mean?” You snap. You know what they mean. Black people. There had never been a lack of racism in your town, you saw it in the way people clutched their purses when Devon walked past or how you were coincidentally always stopped in stores when you were with him. But you wanted to know if they would be so brazen to say it out loud. “Language. And it doesn't matter, our lunch break is over. Be at the station tomorrow.” The other cop glares right back at you, leaving the diner, his partner not far behind him. Velia’s whole body relaxes the minute they leave, she lets out a relieved sigh, dropping her hand from the table to tug at the end of one of her locs. “You shouldn't have provoked them. That's dangerous, $name.” You know she's right, you should've just kept your mouth shut. But something just overtook you when you heard the way they were speaking about Devon—when you saw the way they looked at Velia. “I know I just…I couldn't let them talk about him like that. And the way they think it's not murder? I thought the coroner ruled it a homicide, but now they're saying it's an accident? It's fucked up.” She runs her hand over her face, tilting her head back to stare up at the shoddy lights of the diner. “I know better than anyone how shitty this town is. But you have to do what they ask or stuff can get ugly fast. Just be careful…okay?” You begrudgingly nod, not able to meet her eyes. She rifles around in her pocket, leaving a few bills on the table to pay for your milkshakes. You hate how stifling the silence is in the parking lot, and you hate even more how the same suffocating silence follows you into her car. She licks her chapped lips, looking over at you. “Did you want me to take you home…? Or we could go back to my place if you er—” She swallowed, looking away. “—Wanted to talk more.” <<else>> You wait for them to speak, not wanting to provoke them, especially with Velia sitting in front of you, who knows what they'd do? “What are the both of you laughing about so late? Your parents know where you are?” One of the cops speaks up, his tone gruff and condescending. You can't control the way your nostrils flare at his tone. “Yes, they do.” No, they don't, but how the hell would they know that? “And it’s barely five, sir. Is there a problem with me getting a milkshake with a friend?” “Don't get smart with me.” He snaps, wrinkling up his face like some sort of backyard-bred pug. He looks to Velia, glancing her up and down with a sneer. “And you are?” She doesn't answer right away so he presses his hand to the table, hitting it a few times. “I asked you a question, girl.” She looks up, and your heart brakes at the way you can feel her shaking. This isn't fucking fair. “Velia Hall, sir.” He nods, humming in response. His partner, a shorter man who looks less like he wants to pummel you and Velia into the ground, grabs a small notepad from his back pocket, flipping it to a clean page. He scribbles something down—Velia’s name, you're assuming. “You that kid we been trying to get a hold of about that murder? What's his name…Daniel White?” He scratches at his jaw, looking bored with the conversation. “Devon Whickers.” You correct. He hums noncommittally, scribbling something else down. “And maybe…I’ve been caught up lately. Sorry.” He looks at you slowly, rolling his eye before going back to the yellow notepad. “Well if you could come by the station tomorrow anytime after noon we can get your statement. His Mom’s been hassling us. I’m sure it was just a cut and dry accidental death.” He yawns, pressing the back of his hand to his open mouth. His partner snickers at the way you get visibly more uncomfortable. “He was stabbed. How is //that// accidental?” You glare at them, praying they don't start an all-out brawl in this diner. “Well, you know how it is with those types of people—” The cop shrugged, shoving his notebook back in his pocket. Velia was shaking in front of you, muttering something quietly to herself. “//Those kinds of people?// The hell does that mean?” You snap. You're not normally one to lose your temper, normally you prefer to be more passive in your approach. But you refuse to let them brush over Devon’s death as if he isn't important. But you know exactly what they mean. Black people. There had never been a lack of racism in your town, you saw it in the way people clutched their purses when Devon walked past or how you were coincidentally always stopped in stores when you were with him. But you wanted to know if they would be so brazen to say it out loud. “Language. And it doesn't matter, our lunch break is over. Be at the station tomorrow.” The other cop glares right back at you, leaving the diner, his partner not far behind him. Velia’s whole body relaxes the minute they leave, she lets out a relieved sigh, dropping the hand she has clenched on the edge of the table to tug at the end of one of her locs. “You shouldn't have said anything to them. That's dangerous, $name.” You know she's right, you should've just kept your mouth shut. But something just overtook you when you heard the way they were speaking about Devon—when you saw the way they looked at Velia. “I know I just…I couldn't let them talk about him like that. And the way they think it's not murder? I thought the coroner ruled it a homicide, but now they're saying it's an accident? It's fucked up.” She runs her hand over her face, tilting her head back to stare up at the shoddy lights of the diner. “I know better than anyone how shitty this town is. But you have to do what they ask or stuff can get ugly fast. Just be careful…okay?” You begrudgingly nod, not able to meet her eyes. She rifles around in her pocket, leaving a few bills on the table to pay for your milkshakes. You hate how stifling the silence is in the parking lot, and you hate even more how the same suffocating silence follows you into her car. She licks her chapped lips, looking over at you. “Did you want me to take you home…? Or we could go back to my place if you er—” She swallowed, looking away. “—Wanted to talk more.” <</if>> [["Could we go to your place?" You hadnt been inside her house in years, but going home right now sounded like your worst nightmare |2.16][$velia_points += 3]] [["Actually, could you drop me off at the school?" You knew Ambrose would meet you there if you asked, and you really didn't want to be alone right now.|2.17][$ambrose_points += 3]] [["Could you drop me off at this address?" You really didn't want to be alone right now, and you knew Blaise never minded when you dropped by unaccouned.|2.18][$blaise_points += 3]]

Velia’s parents were both surgeons, so the house was empty and dark when you arrived. She didn't bother showing you around, leading you into her room. She toed off her shoes, placing them on a small rack by her door, her jacket flung onto her desk chair. She clearly had no qualms about you being in her room as she flopped back onto her bed, locs spreading out beneath her head. You stood awkwardly in the doorway. You had always hated entering people's rooms for the first time. It always felt too personal, like you were invading some place you weren't meant to be. She lifted her head up, raising an eyebrow at your hesitation. “I don't bite, you know.” You rolled your eyes at her teasing but still sat beside her on the edge of her bed. You wrung out your hands, the anxiety from the diner conversation still thrumming just below your skin. “Hey.” She reached over, poking you in the ribs lazily. You squirmed away. “What’s on your mind? Your face is all scrunched up and thinky.” “Thinky?” You looked to her, raising an eyebrow. She nodded. “Mhm. Very thinky.” That pulls a smile out of you, a small one, but it's there. You sigh. “It’s just, I have zero idea what I’m doing here, Velia.” She sits up, leaning against the wall, eyes trained on you. “About the cops?” “About all of it. How can I trust them to solve Devon’s murder if they're just trying to brush it off as an accident? ‘S not fair.” She nodded, her face suddenly matching yours. “So don't.” “What do you mean?” She rolled her eyes, scooting closer. “I //said//, so don't. Figure it out yourself. You're a lot smarter than you give yourself credit for, $name.” The idea isn't //totally// crazy. And you have zero resources to work with, but it's better than letting Devon die and having no one care about his justice. He deserves to be at peace, and you don't think he can do that until whoever hurt him is rotting in a cell for the rest of their life. You steel your expression. “So…want to solve a murder with me?” [[End of Chapter. Save Here.|2.19]]

Ambrose while apprehensive at first had agreed to meet you at the school, so there you were, scuffing your shoe on the pavement, sure your pants were getting dirty from the curb you had plopped yourself down on. You couldnt bring yourself to go inside. You knew it was unlocked, it normally was. You just got a sick sense of deja vu being here after school hours. But you didnt know where else to meet with Ambrose…he had said he believed you were innocent. You knew you just couldn't rely on that alone considering the cops probably weren't even going to investigate it as a homicide. You just…needed someone to bounce ideas off of, to perhaps tell you which direction you should go in next. And Blaise was right. Ambrose //did// lick the ground you walked on. Your eyes followed his white Prius as it pulled into the parking lot, but they widened when instead of parking he pulled up right in front of you. He rolled the window down, an eyebrow raised. “Uh—did you want to sit in my car instead? The school kinda gives me the creeps after…y’know.” You made a face, taking a moment to consider if this was some weird come on. But you knew Ambrose wasn't suave enough for that, so you shrugged and opened the door, ducking down into the passenger seat. He moved the car into a parking spot, shutting it off with a quiet whistle. He rocked back in his seat gently, eyes briefly flickering to you, and then away again. “Ugh.” You wipe a hand over your face, keeping it there so you don't have to look at him while you speak. “I don even know why I asked you to meet me here.” You peak between your fingers to see him frown. “Oh.” He sounds disappointed, with a tinge of underlying confusion. “I just had this weird conversation with some cops in the diner across town about Devon—and they said his death will probably be written off as //accidental//. Can you believe how batshit that is?” His frown deepens, and he fiddles with his sweater sleeve. “Can they even do that though…? How do you rule something accidental when he was stabbed?” You fling your hands up. “I don't know!” You groan again. “But what I //do// know is that I can't trust them to figure out what happened to him. They think just because he was black he was some fucking flight risk.” He only nods, looking as if he's listening intently. You had always liked that about him. He never seemed to talk much or interrupt you while you spoke, and yet he always looked at you as if everything leaving your lips was pure gold. As if you had hung the moon. “And I know we really aren't that close or anything but…” You swallow. “Would it be totally crazy to ask you to help me solve Devon’s murder?” [[End of Chapter. Save Here.|2.19]]

You always loved the way Blaise’s house smelled—like cinnamon and home-cooked food. Their Mom loved you, and always welcome you inside with open arms. The home itself was decorated the way it smelt— cozy, and lived in with bits of clutter or family pictures of Blaise and their siblings decorating every surface. Blaise’s room was a different story. It was painted a deep purple with band posters hanging on nearly every inch of exposed wall. Clothes were scattered around in heaps, and it normally smelt of some type of incense. You loved it just as much. Blaise’s Mom had shoved a plate of leftover food in your hands before ushering you upstairs into her child’s room. So there you were, shoveling some type of stew full of tender meat and bread into your mouth while you told Blaise everything. They hummed every few words to show they were listening, their window cracked open, a cigarette hanging out between their fingers. They took a long drag, blowing the smoke outside with a quiet, concealed cough. “So…what? They think the //stairs// stabbed him?” Their face scrunched up, dark eyebrows furrowing. You wiped your hands on your napkin, setting the plate and bowl down on Blaise’s desk. “Zero clue. And I also have no idea what I’m supposed to do here.” Blaise snuffed out the bud of their cigarette, tossing it down into the backyard below. “What //can// you do? Not like we can really go all Nancy Drew on this, I mean it’s a murder, not some fucked up clue game.” They were right. But also wrong? I mean, who said you couldn't try to figure it out by yourself? The worst thing that would happen is you never knew who killed him, but you couldn't trust the cops to actually investigate any of it by themselves. They clearly thought that just because Devon was black that he was a flight risk. That he didn't deserve the same justice as a white kid would get if this were them. “I mean…” Blaise quickly whipped around. “$name, no. Haven't you been through enough?” You pretended to think it over before shaking your head. “//Come on//, Blaise. Help me go all Nancy Drew on this case?” [[End of Chapter. Save Here.|2.19]]

Thank you so much for playing! That's the end of the current demo, but chapter two is already in the works! In chapter two you'll be able to chose a route for whicever love interest you want to romance! We love hearing other's thoughts so feel free to send anything (typos you've noticed, reactions, anything you want to know about the characters) to our [[Tumblr|https://themurderofdevonwhicker.tumblr.com/]] where we'll also post updates regaring future chapter. Again, we very much appreciate you taking in interest in The Murder of Devon Whicker, and hope to see you back next time! - lyn and cam <3