I woke up to shouting outside my window. Not angry shouting, but that excited, almost relieved kind people make when they think something terrible is finally ending. When I opened the curtains, half the street was gathered by the newspaper stand. Mr. Patel, the owner, was waving the early edition in the air like he'd just discovered treasure.
"They caught him!" he kept yelling.
My stomach dropped so fast I thought I might faint.
Caught who?
No—who did they think they caught?
I got dressed quickly. Shirt, jeans, jacket. My hands were shaking so much I buttoned my shirt wrong the first time. I didn't know why I was so rattled. Maybe the last few weeks had piled up—fear, tension, and this weird heaviness in my chest I couldn't explain. Or maybe I already sensed something was off.
By the time I stepped outside, the town was buzzing. I mean it—buzzing. Like the air itself had been wound too tight and was letting go all at once.
I tried to walk casually toward the crowd. I even threw in a polite smile to someone I vaguely recognized from the bakery. You know, pretending everything was normal.
"What's going on?" I asked when I reached the stand.
Mr. Patel puffed out his chest like he was some kind of official authority on the matter. "Police made an arrest early this morning. They think they got the killer."
He said "killer" so loudly people across the street turned their heads.
I forced myself to laugh. "That fast?"
FAST? Why did I say that? Why would I question it? I cleared my throat and tried to look interested but not too interested.
"Who is it?" I asked.
Mr. Patel slapped the paper onto the counter for me to see.
A name I recognized instantly.
Ethan Rowley.
He lived three houses from me. Barely talked. Worked nights. One of those quiet men who always looked like he had a secret but probably didn't. The kind of person everyone finds suspicious only because they're private.
I blinked at the headline:
LOCAL NIGHT-SHIFT WORKER DETAINED IN MURDER INVESTIGATION
"That's him?" I whispered.
A few older women near us crossed their arms and nodded confidently, like the world had finally made sense again. Of course they believed it. They'd been whispering theories for weeks. They needed someone to blame.
"Police say he fits the description," one woman added, leaning in like she had inside information.
"What description?" I asked too quickly.
She shrugged. "Doesn't matter. They're sure."
I felt a sharp pulse behind my eyes. Sure? They were sure?
Because if they were sure about Ethan, they weren't just wrong—they were pointing the wrong way entirely.
I folded the newspaper, careful not to tear it with how tense my fingers were, and walked off before anyone could see the look on my face. I kept my pace steady, breathing slow, but inside, the panic was crawling up my throat.
Ethan. Why him? He had nothing to do with this.
I turned the corner and almost jumped when a police cruiser rolled by. The officers inside didn't look at me, but for some reason I felt exposed. Like they should look at me. Like my thoughts were printed on my forehead.
I hurried home.
I didn't even make tea or take off my jacket when I got inside. I just sat on the edge of my bed, the newspaper in my lap, staring at Ethan's picture.
He looked confused in it. A little scared, even.
That bothered me more than I want to admit.
Maybe it was guilt.
Or maybe it was something else—something worse.
I kept trying to convince myself I wasn't… involved. Just a witness. Just a curious citizen who happened to be too close to these things. Someone who saw a figure in a window. Someone who walked past the first alley. Someone who wanted to understand.
But my mind kept circling back to one thought:
If he didn't do it… who did?
I swallowed hard, pushing that question away so quickly it almost hurt. I stood up and paced the room. It's funny how pacing doesn't actually help anything. It just makes you feel like you're doing something when you're not.
After a few minutes, I grabbed my jacket again and left the house.
I couldn't sit still anymore.
The police station was busier than I'd ever seen it. Officers walked in and out, talking fast, carrying folders, answering phones. I stayed across the street, acting like I was waiting for the bus. If anyone looked at me, I'd just pretend to check my watch or tie my shoe.
But no one paid attention to me.
That made me feel small.
Invisible.
I guess that was good, but for some reason it stung.
I craned my neck slightly, pretending to stretch, and tried to see inside. I wanted a glimpse of Ethan. Just one look to confirm he was alive, unharmed, maybe confused enough to talk his way out.
But then something strange happened.
Two officers walked out carrying a cardboard box filled with items. Evidence bags. I recognized some of the things inside. A broken watch. A black jacket. A pair of boots.
None of it made sense.
Those things had nothing to do with anything.
Unless the police were truly grasping at anything that "felt" suspicious. Unless they were following wrong clues on purpose, or because the real clues were too well hidden. Or maybe…
Maybe the real clues had been cleansed clean from the beginning.
My hands were sweating, so I shoved them into my pockets and forced myself to breathe normally. I didn't want attention. I didn't want anyone asking why I was there.
I circled around the block twice before finally heading home.
The news that night was unbearable.
They didn't say "suspect."
They said "killer."
Every reporter talked with such confidence you'd think they had video proof. One of them even walked past Ethan's house, where curious neighbors stood around trying to look concerned instead of thrilled to have something dramatic to gossip about.
I sat on the couch, arms folded, jaw tight. My whole body felt wired. Overstimulated. Exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.
"They're wrong," I muttered to myself.
But saying it didn't help. It only made me more agitated.
The anchor kept going on about how Ethan fit the "psychological pattern" and how his schedule, his silence, his "odd habits" aligned with what experts predicted. They didn't mention names, of course. Just "behavioral specialists."
I wanted to throw the remote at the screen.
I didn't understand why it made me so angry. I mean, yeah, it was wrong, but people are wrong every day. Police get things backwards. Reporters jump to conclusions. That's life.
So why did I feel like someone was framing the wrong person on purpose?
I turned off the TV and stared at my reflection in the black screen. My face looked tired. Pale. My eyes seemed older, somehow. Like everything happening had changed me in ways I couldn't figure out yet.
I rubbed the back of my neck.
Something wasn't right.
The next morning, I walked to the corner store for coffee. The clerk gave me a weird look, like he was trying to place my face.
"You stay near Ethan's place, right?" he asked.
I froze. "Uh… yeah."
"What's he like?"
I shrugged. "Quiet. I barely know him."
"That's how they usually are," he said with an odd smile.
Something inside me twisted. I didn't know if it was anger or fear, but it made my hands shake when I took the coffee cup.
When I stepped outside, the wind felt colder.
Everyone was talking about Ethan. Everyone seemed so sure. The more confident they sounded, the more paranoid I felt. Like a pressure was building behind my ribs.
It wasn't because I supported him. I barely knew the guy. But I knew injustice when I saw it. And this… this was wrong.
People were starting to relax, and that bothered me too. Their fear had softened. Their energy was shifting back to normal life. Kids played outside again. Couples walked their dogs without looking over their shoulders. The tension in the air had thinned.
They thought it was over.
They thought the killer had been caught.
But they were wrong.
And I knew it.
And deep down, that knowledge sat like a heavy stone in my chest.
Because when a town stops being afraid…
that's when the next body usually appears.
People were being careless again.
Walking alone again.
Leaving curtains open again.
They shouldn't have been so trusting.
They shouldn't have believed the police so easily.
They shouldn't have thought the nightmare was over.
I sipped my coffee slowly, letting the heat steady me, and whispered to myself:
"They're following the wrong clues… and they don't even know it."
And maybe—just maybe—that meant things were about to get a lot worse.