Within The Bonds

67: Special Agent Louis

As the realization of what I've just said settles within me, it hits me. 'My coach was the mole!'

Everything all of a sudden starts to add up. From the bug in my bracelet to the meaning of the mystery poem. But the bigger question here now is who killed him?

'Maybe it was the anonymous texter?' I wonder to myself as the plot thickens leaving me in a fathomless pit of questions.

'But if he was helping the anonymous texter, why is he dead?'

Deep down I know there is an explanation to all of my questions, although how justified it will be, is another topic up for discussion. But one thing is clear as day if I want to crack the code and get to think mystery texter, I need to start thinking like them.

"First I need to find out what is it that they want from me," I say to myself as I brainstorm for ideas to figure this out.

"Maybe they have something against my family?" I voice out a possibility.

"And what if coach's murder has nothing to do with these texts at all. I could be barking up the wrong tree," I sigh flopping flat on the bed as my head churned and turned.

The buzzing of my phone as an indicator that I've received a new text grabs my attention. Scrolling through the multiple messages being exchanged on the group, I land on the one that is of most importance to me.

Lindsey: Attending practices tomorrow is mandatory, principal's orders.

'This should be interesting'

Glancing at the time displayed at the top left corner of my screen an instinctive yawn leaves my lips. With my alarm set to ring in two hours, I curl up into a ball with the duvet thrown across me and I drift into unrestful slumber.

____________________________

Groggily slapping my hand over the speaker of my phone as it continues to emit an ear-piercing sound—that has the capability to awake the dead! —I drag my sleep-ridden feet out of bed and force them to carry me into the bathroom.

A cold splash of water makes contact with my sleep-deprived eyes in an attempt to rid them of its grogginess, but alas, all my mind wants right now is the comfort of the bed.

Spotting the tube of toothpaste sitting innocently in its spot on the counter, I grab it before scanning the room for a toothbrush. Finding one still clad in its packaging in the cabinet, I reach for it while unconsciously knocking down the bottle of ibuprofen in front of it.

Gazing at the bottle, the prominent yet almost forgotten headache reasserts itself in my head taunting me with needle-like pain bouncing off the walls of my head.

"Stupid head," I curse under my breath, as I carefully place the bottle back into its previous location making sure I don't something else down in the process.

Grabbing the toothbrush, I proceed with my morning routine with one hand remains fixated to my temple. Moving my figures in circular motions, I try to ease the pain that comes as a direct effect of sleep deprivation for me, but there is only so much it can do.

As I mentally coach myself to remain awake, realization hits me like a bucket of cold water on a freezing winter night. "I don't have my jersey!" I facepalm myself only intensifying the pain I already harbored in my head.

Caught at a crossroad I internally debate on whether I should take this as an excuse and tell Lindsey I cannot make it, or if I should request Seb to drive me home so I can get changed there.

And although the former option sounds very appealing, the second one offers me an opportunity to seek answers to my never-ending supply of questions. So, settling to take them later, I use my fingers to brush through my hair, patting it down until it's presentable, and exit the door in search of my cousin.