The news about the dead girl spread like wildfire. It was Sunday afternoon, and medias everywhere were buzzing with information about what a distressed elderly lady found that morning.

In a creek by a park near Blackwater Avenue, a teenage girl's corpse had been found, chest torn open, heart missing, and covered in blood. Her identity had been revealed to be that of Angelica Wang, a local teenage girl who had just celebrated her Sweet Sixteen the night before.

It was hard to avoid hearing about the horrifying murder of Angelica Wang. Every channel on TV was talking about it. Students from Saint-Eau Secondary School were sharing videos online about having supposedly known her. Soon, a memorial at the park had been made in her honour. People piled flowers and letters with chocolate boxes and even Justin Bieber CDs

The funeral was made public by Angelica's family who sought all the support they could get in this dark chapter of their lives. The whole town gathered to grieve and mourn the loss of this beautiful, bright, and kind young girl.

I scoffed.

Angelica may have been beautiful, but she wasn't very bright nor very kind.

"Ximena," Mrs. Wang said.

The funeral service was over, and most people were trailing out, but I lingered behind, eyes glued to Angelica. Even in death, her skin was glowing flawlessly, and her hair was a shimmering bottle blonde. I didn't even know why I looked inside the coffin in the first place, but I was unable to look away.

"Ximena," Mrs. Wang repeated. This time, she gently touched my shoulder, and I could finally peel my eyes away from Angelica's pale body.

"Mrs. Wang," I said. "I want to offer my condolences. Angelica didn't deserve this and neither did your family."

"You're very kind," she said, her twinkling eyes betraying her smile.

"If there's anything you need, don't be afraid to ask," I added earnestly.

"Thank you, Ximena," she said, her smile quivering, struggling to stay put.

I leaned in for a hug. Mrs. Wang was surprised at first, but accepted the embrace anyway, her hands lingering on my back as if reminiscent of something long forgotten.

"How's your mother, Ximena?" she asked when we finally pulled away from each other.

"She's doing well," I answered shortly.

"The case isn't taking too much of her energy?" Mrs. Wang pried.

My mother was the leader of the investigative team on The Angelica Wang Case, and naturally, I had expected Mrs. Wang to pry. I mean, who wouldn't when their daughter had just been brutally murdered?

"Well, of course it is, but as you know, she's also dealt with cases like this one before back in Montréal," I said. "And before you ask, I don't know any more than you do about who is responsible for this. My mother does not enjoy involving me in those matters."

"Of course," she said with a solemn nod, but she grimaced.

"Whoever did this will get caught," I added firmly. "My mom's good at her job, believe me."

"Thank you, Ximena," Mrs. Wang gently sighed through her nose. "You take care, now, why don't you? The funeral is over. You should get going."

"You're right. I should get going. I'll hopefully see you around," I said.

Before I could go, Mrs. Wang grabbed my hands and squeezed them.

"Be careful out there," she said. "Don't walk around alone at night, okay?"

"I promise I'll be careful. Thank you."

23:54

I let my bedroom window open, enjoying the cool breeze of the summer night. It was too difficult to get any sleep, so I sat by my window and doodled in a random notebook I had laying around.

I doodled the crescent moon above. I doodled the stars that adorned it. I doodled the silhouette at the window across mine.

My teenage neighbour was a fellow attic-dweller. I couldn't see much of anything past his curtains, but I could see his shadow moving around the room in haste movements.

He suddenly pulled the curtains apart, and there he was, the boy I had met on my first night in this town. He was dark-haired and dark-eyed with olive skin like mine though much lighter, and he held a cigarette in between his lips.

He tried lighting his cigarette but dropped the lighter and it plummeted into the trash bins below.

"Motherfu—"

"Hold on," I said.

I shuffled through my desk for a moment and retrieved my long lighter — which I used for candles and not cigarettes, obviously.

"Thanks," he said when I flashed the lighter in his face.

"Uhm... Wait a minute..." I said, trying to find a way to give him the lighter despite the meters distance between our windows.

"Throw it?" he suggested.

"I have shit aim," I admitted. "Hang on..."

I opened my closet door and found it instantly: my Lacrosse stick.

"What's that?" he queried when I emerged with the stick.

"Don't you know Canada's national sport?" I asked, bemused.

"Hockey?" he offered.

"Yes...but also...?"

"Football." 

"No, Lacrosse."

"What the hell is that?" he scrunched his nose in perplexion.

"Man, you're so lame," I groaned, and he rolled his eyes at that comment.

Without waiting any longer, I carefully placed my long lighter at the net part of my Lacrosse stick and extended it out the window. I had to bring my entire arm out the window so that the stick could even reach him.

"Thanks," he said.

I heard the lighter flick two times before he placed it back on the net-end of my Lacrosse stick.

"I never thought I would be using my Lacrosse stick ever again," I admitted with a chuckle as I retrieved my stick and admired it in my bedroom.

"Why not?" he asked after blowing out his first puff.

"The local high school doesn't have a Lacrosse team," I informed him, pursing my lips to the side with disappointment.

"Too bad," he said.

He puffed on his cigarette more.

"You know that thing kills, right?" I said, gesturing at his cigarette. He merely raised an eyebrow at me.

"Yeah, I know it kills. But I kind of need this right now," he shrugged.

"Stressed lately?" I asked.

"You bet," he said, raising both his eyebrows as he seemed to mull over in his head what he should or shouldn't disclose to me. "With the dead girl being the talk of the town and all... Kind of hard not to be freaked out, you know?"

"You knew her?" I pried, surprised.

"Yeah, I mean, everybody did. I actually performed at her Sweet Sixteen. My band, Nightmare Fuel, we, uh, yeah, I don't know. No one expected her to be found dead the next day..."

"Were you two close?" I probed.

He laughed gently and smoked another puff before answering.

"I mean... I wanted to be close to her... but," he laughed mockingly though to himself. "Who am I kidding? We weren't close at all. She barely even liked me, let alone tolerated me."

He looked down, a mixture of embarrassment and shame gripping his face.

"Did you like her?" I tried. He winced a smile and avoided my gaze.

"You tryna therapize me?" he chuckled.

"No... just curious. I mean, I just came to this town, and well, I don't know much about what's the deal around here? I mean, was Angelica like a popular girl? Was she, uh—"

"She was definitely popular," he said decidedly. "Probably why she ended up the way she did. I don't know, maybe someone got jealous."

"That's a horrible way to die," I sighed.

"Yeah."

And we remained silent at our windowsill as my teenage neighbour smoked his cigarette. The fumes were floating towards my window, but I tried to ignore the atrocious stench and just enjoy the company of this stranger.

"Did you say that your band's name is 'Nightmare Fuel'?" I queried, intrigued.

"Yeah, we've even got a van," he said. "It's parked in front of my house."

I immediately recalled the bizarre white van I had seen when I first came to this neighborhood. It was what looked like a white pedo-van with the words "Nitemare Fule" roughly etched upon it in sharpie. I couldn't say I wasn't amused by the spelling.

"That's an interesting name," was all I could comment on it.

"Thanks," he beamed.

After a cricket-filled silence coupled by a few of the boy's cigarette puffs, I couldn't help but interject, "I'm Ximena, by the way."

"Dante," he said with a quick nod.

"Dante," I repeated, though mostly to myself so I would remember.

"Well, time's up," Dante said. He extinguished what little remained of his cigarette then tossed it in the trash bins below. "I guess, I'll see you around?"

"Yeah," I said, trying not to sound too hopeful.

Suddenly, something from Dante's bedroom pounced on his windowsill. It was the black tabby cat from the other day. She purred and rubbed her face into Dante's hand.

"Ah. Looks like she was waiting for me to finish smoking. What a smart cat—" Dante cut himself short as he scratched the cat's neck, and she lowered her head in satisfaction.

"Looks like she's found a home," I said, smiling at how adorable she was. Dante chuckled awkwardly.

"Well, I wouldn't say that just yet. My parents still don't know I've been feeding her, let alone allowing her to stay here."

The stray cat started sniffing outside the window in my direction. She wiggled her butt, as if preparing to pounce.

"Oh dear," I said just before she casually landed on my windowsill.

She trailed down and stepped onto my desk, her paws messing up the doodles I had been drawing.

"Looks like she's made a new friend," Dante said, grinning slightly.

"Well. I suppose my mother wouldn't mind if I kept her. Would have to convince her though."

The black tabby placed her paws on my chest, her face inching closing to mine as she smelled me. I felt the cat's whiskers tickling my face and couldn't help but frown.

"Maybe you smell like fish?" Dante offered.

"God. I hope not," I said.

The cat finally settled down at the center of my desk, her green eyes fixating me intensely and her tail wagging impatiently.

I caressed her neck. She purred instantly.

"Has she got a name?" I asked Dante who was still leaning on his windowsill.

"Haven't given one. Didn't wanna get too attached, you know?" he said almost regretfully.

"I think I'll name her Anastasia, then," I decided. I sensed that she liked me already, and I could definitely use the company while my mother is off to work all the time.

"Great name," Dante nodded approvingly. "Mind if I go now? You know, school tomorrow and all. You should get some sleep too."

"Yeah, for sure. I'm just waiting for my mom — I'll keep Anastasia, by the way. Don't worry about it," I added before he could ask. Anastasia meowed in satisfaction seemingly at what I'd said.

"Thanks. Good night, then."

With a last nod in my direction, the boy drew his curtains. After a flick of the light, his shadow merged with the darkness of his room.