❝I had a conversation with Death, he wants you back ❞
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At the New Year's Eve party, Quincy Sinclair finds the dead body of Alfred Kingsley III. Resident golden boy and incredibly rich, his death was no accident.
By morning, Quincy sees him again...
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I watched Hadiyah's retreating figure as she left with the policewoman, talking calmly, they ducked their heads away from onlookers. My head throbbed. Every time I talked to a new person, it left me in a worse place than when I started. I couldn't keep doing this.
"Don't look too gloomy," Kingsley reassured as he faded into the seat Hadiyah once took. "At least he didn't die, imagine if we'd have to attend two more funerals."
He cracked a smile, trying to cheer me up. And it did for a moment. He'd been quiet and that scared me. I craved his voice, the incessant comments and odd teasing.
The passenger side door opened quickly, releasing a violently cold breeze to travel up the left side of my body.
"Would you mind taking a step out of the vehicle, I'd like to speak to you," a deep male voice spoke and I snapped my eyes closed, taking a breath. I was in no mood to talk to the police.
"Miss," he urged when after a moment, I didn't answer.
"You'd better get out before they blame you for running Atticus over too," Kingsley joked and he was right. Swiftly, I left.
The police officer's beady brown eyes stared at me accusingly but I couldn't concentrate on the words he uttered. Instead, I was focused on his beard, a sandy blonde, that had grown messily. With knots and grease, the colour matched the hair on his head, gelled backwards like stiff sticks which further highlighted his unfortunate hairline, seeming to recede further back with every second.
He snapped his fingers in front of my face and I realised that while in my daze, he had asked a question. A question that I had missed from a conversation I had ignored.
"Pardon," I asked with a tight-lipped smile.
He frowned and grabbed a small leather notebook and pen from his pocket.
"I asked what your name was," he said through gritted teeth.
"Quincy."
He jotted it down. "Quincy what?"
I sighed. "Quincy Sinclair."
His attention piqued. "And you saw what occurred with the car, yes?"
I looked around, searching for Arlo. She was sat on the pavement, a phone pressed to her ear while Taron watched. Both looked uncomfortable around one another and if it wasn't for the policeman, I would've rescued her from the encounter.
"Well?" He pressed, tapping his foot against the concrete loudly.
"I don't think I want to say anything."
"Excuse me?" He demanded and his voice was louder now, hitched with surprise.
"I'm seventeen," I deadpanned. "A minor. So, you can't question me without a parent or guardian present. And, as you can see, I have neither with me right now."
