There was no way I will forget this face.

When his shadow passed on the doorstep, insecurities slithered under my skin. Fears readied my response for the worst.

Mr. Harrison cramped himself, blocking the upcoming bloodshed; “my, my, it seems that I missed the hint." I disregarded his interference.

His hand clapped for attention. Yet the sharp sound forced me to eye him.

"I didn't know that you two already knew each other." He ended the sentence with a stupid forced laugh.

The spared glance I bestowed on him jerked toward the unknown face that finally got a name; Mr. Macias.

However, Mr. Harrison, as ever, was slow in assessing his own standing in a conversation that shouldn't include him.

"It saves me the hassle of introducing... Haha..." He chewed, stammering.

"Could you please…" Marchetti's unofficial replacement beckoned… his eyes smiling at the doorway

Without a further delay, Mr. Harrison, on the tips of his toes, retreated, leaving his usual touch of fake flattery. At last, he understood his worth in this office.

Placide. My face settled, inspecting the standing man's shoes, the cut end of his trousers. Dustless. Spotless. His clothes were smooth, with no trace of wrinkles.

Our gaze collided in mid-air. Heating the surroundings. The inner parts of my mind blanked from turmoil. My logic sunk in a sticky swamp.

The roots of the relationship between Mr. Marchetti and this dangerous man, a new quest I had yet time to take on. To what depth those roots reached, so would he be chosen as his replacement?

In our first encounter, numerous things I noticed about this man. For hours, I was drained by thoughts about our silent symbolic talk as well as the expressive one the two of us shared in that dark room.

His incessant desire for me to believe in his words, the repetitive questions about those who were supposed to frame me, and I was supposed to be aware of them. His concealed desperation to reveal my guess of those behind the scene reached the edge of pleading.

Endless times I wondered to myself, how can someone be genuine to the point of entreaty and be able to shake you to the point of terror at the same time.

My hands crossed behind my back in military forwardness. The stares I pointed directly, indiscriminately at this person kept him pinned at the same spot.

Yet my mind traveled everywhere, escaping the unrelaxed dis-balance, looking for an excuse to avoid this confrontation.

Maybe I was thrilled by the surprise, or curious to discover his aims. Either way, his mere presence in here provoked my highest misgivings.

Consideration about restarting the conversation climbed up my head, though nothing seemed fit after my stupid, impulsive, blatant attack.

Albeit my profound attentiveness, in an unexpected declaration, my ears captured a weird meaning:

"I admit it." He said, or I hallucinated what he said.

Compelled, my eyes wide, pictured his profile. His hands, before his chest, waved a surrounding insignia. This moment was the epic of my bewilderment in the calm of the last few days.

“I admit it.” He repeated, for me to validate, for he read the hesitation written all over my visage.

Hell, you are admitting what?

"I lost.”

“Huh?”

I swear, he is doing it on purpose.

“I acted on my superiority in that situation, I underestimate you.”

Is he talking about that night in the interrogation room? I won’t fall for the psychological harassment, again. I Hope…

“You were playing us all along, and I drove right into your trap.”

My gaze burned, sending soundless inquiries. What this man is talking about?

If anyone was in control of that situation, it was him. Back then, I merely passed his interrogation because of the time limit.

“It took me hours to figure it out.” He tested. His dismissed hands joined in one quiet clap, “To figure out that it was a trap.”

“What are you talking about?”

"Don’t play dumb, I said. I admit my loss. I rarely do."

In that laid-back attitude of his, he invited himself further inside the office. Sizing the first chair near the desk. Crossed his legs. Elbow sustained by a pile of files while his chin relaxed in the vicinity of his palm. A posture could be translated as I am the new owner of this place.

This man hit right where it irks my nerves. He is well informed about my obsessive compulsions. Maybe that’s why he threatened me, back then, with a psychological assessment.

The muscles of my jew spasmed, in forced neutrality, I hit back: "I didn't ask for a lawyer. You hadn't the right to be in the interrogation room that day."

"Thanks to your caution, there is no proof of me being in the interrogation room." his head inclined for a better view.

The nostalgic taste of an insomniac night washed my mouth. As he observed me through the golden frame of his glasses, his haughtiness dissolved bit by bit in the glamor of a perfect realization.

"There is no need to change the subject." He swallowed, appeased. “Or you are not the kind who dwells in his victories.”

His body shifted to allow extra relaxation into the caress of the chair; “If it were me, I would be drunk on it for days.”

Sidelong glimpses peeped at my frozen countenances. Measuring what it should be, unnoticeable alterations of presumed indifferent features. His neck craned, the both of us gained a full view of each other's disguise. While I was painfully exposed to him, I solely deciphered the disappointment trails bordering the corners of his eyes.

Pointless was my futile attempt to hide my provoked nerves in front of this man. Finally, after much pretense, I submitted. He won. I can’t calm down against this kind of person. Yet before any word of protest could pass the edges of my mouth, he said:

“You were aware of Mm. Marchetti’s intention when she invited you to stay.” His hands fondled the files.

“It’s hard to not notice. She always acts extra-dramatic when she plans something.”

Oh my god, she also acted so dramatic at Liam’s funeral. This realization hammered into my head as the memories of her fist on my chest revived. Wasn’t that just an act to fake grief?

“This also can explain why you recommended to Mr. Marchetti installing a surveillance system in the backyard,” a sly glare mailed from his eyes to corner me, to accuse me: “To use it as an alibi.”

My lips firm shut, teeth grinding, I better not jump to a bad conclusion... Let him finish telling his theory. Full and clear.

In all honesty, the task of finding this man's identity was placed atop of my list for the people who must be dealt with sooner.

“Because you were familiar with the system, you probably will take you one look to notice that it was shut down, then fain ignorance about it being shut down.”

I became more interested in the meaning of his rumble as the smiles of victory began padding his cheeks.

“The records you have prepared to counter-attack the testament of the ladies, you have masterfully woven it into the big picture. Despite the short time you have known that you have been set up for something.”

What he is talking about, I could hardly repress my puzzlement. Unprepared for what is to come.

“I underestimated the extent of your resolve. Who would think that you will go to the point of murdering a kid.”

What?

Murder?

What a wrecked distortion of reality.

The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Him making an appearance, today, in such manners, in such a position, in such a place. Singing implausible theory, believing in it, a proof that his intent, now, or back in the interrogation room wasn’t about achieving justice, finding the real criminals, and setting an innocent soul out of the accusation cage.

The ever naïve me thought I had got rid of him, of every smell of the murder accusation, after the official declaration of my innocence. A big miscalculation on my part.

Didn’t Travis tell me that Anna was convinced that I was the real culprit? Now, I found out the source of the false idea.

Was this man the reason she broke up with me?

One of the biggest flaws of this man was his tongue. He spoke far more than necessary.

This little chat confirmed that not just the people who aimed to trap me are active on my trails, but also the police when the real culprits, still outside the bars.

"But I have avenged my loss." He stood in one swift movement. The wave of disturbed air slapped my face.

Alarmed by the posture change, the second I adjusted my gaze, It fell on a dark plastic bag.

"Don't get full of yourself just because you outwitted me, once."

I tasted the bitter warning emerging from the steam of his breath. Mixed with arrogant confidence. My red light alarm flickered. As I started guessing what was inside the bag.

A swallowed laugh perked from his delighted lips: “You must have guessed out.” My heartbeats, loud, echoed into my eardrums, “What is inside this bag.”

His amused smile only widened to reach his eyes. “I ordered a meticulous search when I bought the house.”

I get it, for the purpose of cornering me by the gossiping mourners, the one who advised Mm. Marchetti to make a scene at the funeral, at my sight, was him.

My legs failed me. I barely was able to maintain my standing.

At this instant, there was nothing I can do or say to deflect his absurd theory. I can only deny it, until the last breath.

“Guess? What should I guess?”

Akin to a magic trick, from behind the black bag, he brought out a sealed envelope: “I thought you would deny it.”

My doomed future blackened my vision as I spelled “Fingerprint analysis result.” on the back of the envelope.

“Yes,” he smugly added, “You guessed right.” While my gaze alternated between his ecstatic face and the damned envelope. “I took your fingerprint reference from my phone.”

On the floor, my eyes were forwarded. If he gave that evidence to the police, how could I liberate myself from the suspicion a second time?

I don’t want to imagine my horrible state. My father disappointed glares. I felt them condemning me of my own worthlessness. My grandfather's ghost. I sensed his presence, wrapping me in a sympathetic embrace. Defending me from my father's scorn, and whispering in my ears: “It’s okay Noah, you will find your way.”

In that instant, I realized; Why didn't Mr. Macias contact the police with this evidence? Unless he wanted something in return.

Blackmailing?

“Since I only believe in trust and loyalty for a relationship to work,” he said, as he placed the black bag and the envelope into my custody. “I will trust you with those.”

My second bewilderment ever on this day. The stretched hand asking for a shake, in front of me. I couldn’t refuse it, neither could I fully welcome it.

“Let us have a good working relationship.” Sincere, I channeled his tone.

*** *** ***

“You have not looked well since days.” Emery’s employee, the server, and I clicked so well, we became best friends in no time.

“Work…” Absentmindedly, I responded to her.

“What?” she punched my shoulder playfully. “I am doing all the work here, you only came in your free time.”

“Law school…” My tone, ever distance, detached in a faraway land of worries.

She put the auction register then slid a pen above it: “Anyway, don’t forget to approve the list before the weekend.”

The leather cover at the edge of my sight, at first, made me wonder why Emery’s auction business used traditional ways. Why won't he install a private server to facilitate the menial tasks for his workers? However, as the days of my work turned into weeks, I opened to appreciate the traditional methods. Even enjoying the process.

I picked the heavy register, turning the pages lazily. It took me forever to reach the last page. These slow, unmotivated gestures appeared to irk Annabell.

Her finger strode to help in-process and finish it. She pointed: “You can start from here.” The tip of her nail pointed to the date marking. While my gaze noticed her fingers. Her fingernails precisely, their shape, their colors, somehow, triggered my memory of Evelyne. The resemblance was wide.

My grandmother, as she caressed Evelyn’s hands, always complimented their elegance. The unmindful, younger version of me didn’t grasp the significance. After I witnessed Emery’s irritation melting at Evelyn’s hands on his shoulder. It creeped me out.

Almost all the female staff shared the same vague trait. He must have a thing for hands and fingernails.

Slightly delighted, my mood improved a little. The pen trapped between my fingers hovered above the page, pensive. I said after seconds of contemplation: “Can you lend me your laptop?”

My eyes peered at her for a response. She was startled by the demand: “Lately mine is a little off.” I elaborated, my tone was neutral yet my face was suggestive.

Of course, if she thought I was invading her personal space, free to decline her choice.

Another pack of files landed next to me: “By all means,” Nonchalantly giving an answer, after throwing more work for me to do: “I don’t use it that often.”

She didn’t look me in the eye when she added this; “You can keep it until you receive yours.” Her voice, strange. A lier I will be if I said it was hard for me to pinpoint the anomaly.

When the clock ticked midnight, I gave up. The work Annabell sent to me was barely finished. Most of it is still piled on the desk. Unable to concentrate, unsettled, my mind swam in an ocean of endless turbulence.

Restless, my thumb rubbed the ring head. My gaze drifted around the room, leaped everywhere before focusing on Annabell’s laptop at the side.

It’s been almost two weeks since Evelyn handed me a copy of the interrogation records, though I have yet to examine them.

A case of procrastination… Nuh... Whom I am kidding? This is a life-or-death matter for me...

Why am I avoiding it then, like fleeing from an obvious revelation I didn’t wish to acknowledge or confirm? Something I don’t want to listen to, to hear.

I kept making excuses: my phone must be under surveillance of the police, my laptop must be bugged by whoever broke into my room in the dormitory. It’s risky to use the library computers…

They were mere excuses I created to delay the inevitable. To postpone the outcome of a battle between the rationality of life and my heart. That is going on and on. Inside my head.

The sound of my broken heart. Afraid to hear it again. Now cornered, chained to a cold wall, I had no choice but to face the reality.

My index touched the switch button without clicking it. As soon as my eyes fell on Mr. Macias’s envelope, the screen lit up. I put the headphone on, then I inserted the memory card.

the memory card contained a bunch of files mainly recorded audio and videos. and only one folder, marked in red "important, must be checked."

It itched my curiosity so It won the first few clicks. But all the increased urge died after I read some of the titles.

The folder didn't treat my case at all rather it contained several press articles about something else. Not urgent neither important for the time being. For a passing moment, I wondered why Evelyn collected those speculations about the Olvera dinner party and the incident of that day.

Why did she put them in this memory card?

my contemplation was ephemeral. With the thought that I will return to this folder later, I jumped to the records.

The first one was about Mm. Marchetti spouting nonsense. Her statement was full of loopholes.

“Madam, you have told us you saw him killing the kid? How? Wasn’t it pitch black?” Judging by the voice, I believe this officer wasn’t among the ones who interrogated me.

“Weren’t you standing at the same level as him, and given your position you were able to only see his back.” he did a great job spotting illogical lacunas. “Can you tell me what you have exactly seen? Not what you supposed.”

His voice is very familiar.

“The lightning illuminated the garden. I saw him crouching on the boy’s body.” Mm. Marchetti’s tongue stuttering,

“You mean, in that instant, you figured out that the boy was dead and the one checking on him is the murderer.”

Wait a minute, the way his questions were structured, as if he was revising the pits in Mm. Marchetti already confessed, statement.

He did one good job.

But didn’t his meticulous interrogation defy the purpose of the whole ploy to implicate me?

It means one thing, the people behind the curtains didn’t control all the officers.

The conversation jumped to the next question: “You also said your daughter’s relationship with him wasn’t great and they were going to break up. Was it logical for you to invite him to stay for the night?”

The second record was about, as I guessed, Emery’s men.

Two men happen to drive through the rear of the house and get a glimpse of individuals climbing up the fence and sprinting toward a vehicle parked nearby. Even they offered a phone camera video confirming their saying. However, they didn’t get to see faces nor be able to register the car number because of the darkness.

So this had solidified my statement.

On the other hand, maybe they really couldn’t see their faces, but the car number, a blatant bluff. Emery must be on track with this car.

Few other records and files were about the psychological assessment of the Marchetti ladies, under the excuse of the traumatic shock.

The reports confirmed the ladies were unstable at the moment. It can take their statements with a grain of salt.

Evelyn touch. I sensed it under the written lines. This was her work.

Didn’t Mr. Macias threaten me by employing the same method? Grateful he didn’t have the power to do so.

Then the last record, the one I was putting off, the one I was afraid to hear.

“I woke up to Molly barking, my window open in the backyard so I looked over, at the break of lightning I saw him planting something on somebody on the soil.” Her voice crushed under suppressed cries, “I can’t believe it was Liam.”

“Are you certain it was your boyfriend?”

“Yes,” she sobbed, “There is no way I will mistake him for someone else.”

“Then why would he go out of his way and take the child out to the backyard then kill him, isn’t it easier to kill him in his room?”

“I don’t know what he thinks? He isn’t normal after all.”

I watched tentatively. The officer handed her a napkin, waited, before delving into the next question: “Your mother said that you were going to break up, and he sensed it, he kill your brother for retaliation...”

“My mother was right. I should have broken up with him. But with all the bad things going on in my life, I just… I just couldn’t make my mind. I was drugging things up because I was afraid of being alone.”

“My question was, why does he retaliate against your little brother and not you directly?”

“I don’t know. I told you he is not normal. Who knows what goes inside his mind. At first, I didn’t listen to my mother, but after going out with him, she was right, there is just something wrong with him like he was some kind of monster who is trying to fit in a place that didn’t suit him, using me.”

My hand clicked on the switch-off button. There was no point in listing more. The things I feared hearing the most scattered on Anna’s sobbing breath, like a knife piercing through my skin.

Was it how Anna truly saw me? All this time…

The image I painted of her in my head despite all the awkwardness… How pathetic of me?

So agonizing, so hard. Her confession reverberated inside my head. I needed to distract my thoughts or I will go wild.

Thank goddess for the black bag Mr. Macias left me with. It served me an excellent dish for distraction.

I tempered with the envelope, opening it, no hesitation. Reading the results didn’t come as shock, my expectations, my fears... A 100% match. Neutral, my state of mind.

I sighed…

The next step was to count the number of Fm transmitters, wondering if Mr. Macias found them all.

Before I could open the bag, I wore gloves out of habit, so I wouldn't contaminate the sample if I went for counter testing.

Handling the bag carefully, I took out the first device. Feeling it within my fingers.

Its shape, the sophisticated design, I felt my jaw drop… My eyes popped out...

How come?

Those are high materiel quality transmitters, different from the handmade, low quality I planted in the Marchetti's house.

The entire weight of my frustration was thrown backward. Unbalancing the seat.

A case of fingerprints forgery?

A laugh surged out from the depth of satisfaction. Like a foul, a possessed, I couldn’t surpass it.

Oh, he tricked me?

Did I got tricked by Mr. Macias? just like that...

Then why? Why did he choose to print my fingerprints on a transmitter?