The Day the World Stopped Turning

Smoothing down her black dress, Hayley took her seat in the courtroom with the rest of her family. All around her she could hear muttering, talking, whispering, and if she had cared to look around, she would have seen people staring at them. She was careful to look straight ahead, not making eye contact with anyone, not even the bailiffs or the jury.

None of them spoke; there was really nothing they could say. All they could do was hope that justice would be served. It was going to be a long day, just another in a seemingly endless string of long days and she hoped she would be able to handle it.

All the shuffling, whispering, coughing, around her did not die down. The endless sounds of papers being sorted, pens scratching, handbags opening and closing, clacking of shoes on tile, the wooden benches squeaking – everything just seemed so excessively loud. Even when the judge walked in, the noise around them continued, and the bailiff had to call for silence several times.

Though Hayley tried to concentrate, she felt her mind slipping away as procedures began; the judge spoke, the bailiff spoke, so many people spoke things she couldn't seem to grasp until the room went silent and Hayley looked up as the side door opened and the man who murdered her brother walked in.

She always wondered what she would do when she saw him; would she leap over the bench and attack? Scream obscenities? Run out of the room? To her surprise, she just stared at him and was taken back to that terrible day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had been just an ordinary Saturday. They had just had dinner, and they were relaxing in front of the TV.

Everything had been fine; they were watching a show, and talking, and laughing, and making fun of the corny dialogue and everything was fine and it was a normal evening when Francine's phone rang. "No," they heard her say, but none of them paid very much attention. "I'll call him for you." Then she hung up and dialled another number. Nothing out of the ordinary there. Only when Hayley heard her name did she look up. Her mother asked her if she'd seen Steve. She felt confused; Francine knew he had left a little while ago to go to Snot's for a sleepover, why was she asking? "No, no, Hayley, he's not there, and he's not answering his cell."

A jolt ran right through her body. Call it sisterly instinct, a gut feeling, whatever, but she knew – she just knew – that she wasn't going to see Steve again. She would later find out that Stan and Francine also had the exact same feeling, but none of them said it, because who needed to hear that?

Select few people she would reveal this to later on did not understand. Why didn't she think positive? Why was that the first thought that had popped into her head? But... she had thought positive; she kept quiet about her feelings and got right on social media. While her parents left the house to embark on what would would turn out to be a fruitless search, she spread the word and managed to get #FindSteveSmith trending locally, thanks to her following, and a few well worded threats of blackmail with pictures of the governor in a compromising position (all hail her women's right groups for needing photos like this – campaigns and marches needed publicity, after all).

Hayley remembered very little of that night; it was mainly a frantic blur. There was an endless stream of police officers coming in and out of the house, because "this was serious, damn it!" Francine had snapped, and luckily the officers seemed to understand.
There were phone calls to friends and relatives. Francine paced restlessly. Stan barked orders at the officers down the phone that was glued to his ear to find his boy. Hayley remembered the three of them making posters and leaflets which they distributed online, because they had been made to stay at home in case Steve turned up. Or, as she later realised, in case they found something the police didn't want them to find.
She remembered Klaus being unable to do anything but swim incircles, muttering to himself in German, and Roger had assumed an old detective persona, but, like them, could not leave the house, so he was in Stan's office, multiple rotary phones in front of him, jabbering away.