I stare at the once-forgotten piece of paper, tracing the wrinkles with my finger. So he found it. I knew this was futile, it's not like I ever loved the shithead. I place the photograph back into my sister's favourite book. I lay atop the bastard's bed, wondering what he thought of me. He probably thinks I'm infatuated. I gag at the thought.

​

What did he hope to achieve by staying silent? Was he playing detective? So childish.

​

Now came the big question. What do I do? I can kill him. I can run away. Burn the photograph. Pretend I was "reading my favourite book when I couldn't help but notice it." I could pretend I don't want to talk about myself or go the other way and come up with an excruciatingly elaborate lie.

​

I sigh, wearily getting up, as I do, the doorbell rings. Possibilities fill my mind as I walk towards the front door.

​

"Can I help you, officers?"

​

Again?

​

"Ma'am, you are under arrest for the mur-"

​

I snap my fingers, and a familiar piece of paper appears between them, a drawer in front of me.

​

A letter this time. A suicide note. This is going to be good.