Chapter 1
James was dead.
I didn't know what to think or feel when I first heard the news. One thing I did know was that I wasn't upset about it like the rest of the town was. I didn't grieve about it or suddenly go all depressed just because one of the town's "Golden Boys" was gone.
I didn't go to the funeral that basically the whole town attended and I most definitely didn't take the extra day off of school that the head teacher offered. As a result of that I was the only person in school on that Monday, with a few other kids but most were mourning the death of James Barrow.
Apparently, his girlfriend, Diana Parker, had gone to his house after he didn't return her calls or texts one morning. When she got there, the door was unlocked and as she went in, there was blood everywhere. They later found out that James had been stabbed almost 50 times, 48 to be exact. It was also confirmed that he has been murdered the night before. And from what the investigator and pathologist could tell, the crime was clearly done out of anger and hatred. It's like whoever killed him wanted him dead. Needed him dead.
I knew this because my mother was the one that performed the autopsy. She said that she'd never seen anything like it. And that honestly scared me, seeing as she saw dead bodies for a living. She also said that she'd never seen so much hatred and anger in a crime. Whoever did it loathed him.
And at that, all fingers pointed at me.
Everyone knew a hated James. After we dated in freshman year and broke up in sophomore after I found out that he was cheating and other things things that he did, news spread fast in Waterstone about the break-up and how he cheated on me with my now ex-best friend. Diana.
It made sense to everyone that I would've done it. Hell, I'd already declared how much I hated him in public and that I wished him dead. But now that I actually got what I wished for, I wish I'd never even uttered those syllables. Everyone thought that I did it because it was a crime of passion, you know? The whole "If I can't have you, then nobody can" thing. Even my older brother thought I did it.
Sheriff Whitmore hadn't come yet thanks to my father defending me, even though I'm pretty sure that he'd rather have me out of the house and behind bars, but I guess mother must've persuaded him. You see, my father was considered higher authority that God in this town, and even the Sheriff would would take his word for anything and everything. Everyone looked up to my family, just not me. So I had yet to make my statement about where I was the night of the murder of James Barrow.
And as if the universe hadn't had me stained enough, everyone was at the drive-in that night and the only person that wasn't there was me. So, it wasn't that hard to put two and two together to figure out that whoever wasn't at the drive-in was a suspect.
That was all last week. Now I stand in front of my locker, trying to get the white spray paint spelling 'Murderer' off. I wasn't that surprised to be honest, my house is much worse. I was getting hate mail everyday, the piles grew bigger and bigger every morning and our grand mansion looked worse than ever.
Everyone is back in school school now, and all their anger is directed at me, so that doesn't make things any better.
"Hey." A cool, calm voice greets me from behind. I don't even have to look to know that it's Dylan.
"Hey." I answer back, lacking enthusiasm in my tone. I hear him chuckle and stand beside me, taking the cloth out of my hands and easily wiping off the spray paint. Once he's done, he smoothly throws it into the bin and turns to me, sorrow in his eyes.
"You know you don't deserve any of this, right? I know you didn't do it, it's not in your nature." Ignoring the dirty looks from randomers walking by, I straighten my rigid posture and turn to face my best friend of over a decade.
"Tell everyone else that." I respond, pointing to everyone passing by. "I mean, yeah sure, I hated the guy but I don't think I could ever hate someone enough to kill them." I add after a moment of silence.
We begin to walk in silence, my mind too focused on wallowing in self-pity to acknowledge the death stares I was not so subtly receiving. "Who do you think did it?" Dylan asks. I shrug, not really bothered. Whoever did it did me a favour in the process.
"This may sound like that exact thing that the murderer would say, but I really don't care if I'm being honest." We reach our home room and take our seats in the middle of the classroom as the other students pile in. "James wasn't as great as everyone thinks he was and he deserves to rot in hell."
Before he has a chance to sat anything else, out home room teacher walks in. She's tousled from side to side, cheeks red and puffy and blouse buttons not done in the correct order. She looks the exact same as she does everyday. She fixes her red hair by pushing it back with her glasses and straightens out her blouse and takes her seat at the front of the classroom, looking at us as if she didn't just walk in looking like she'd just been through a hurricane.
Her eyes scan the classroom, until they finally land on me. She observes me for a moments, and I don't look away from her burning stare, before looking away to the rest of the class.
And that's how the rest of home room goes...
