The bedroom was unfamiliar.

There were about six drawings on the wall, all the same rectangular shape and size, all done in graphite. They depicted different things: a girl reading a book, the mountains, a Labrador dog, fir-trees, a waterfall and a boy looking out the window. The paintings looked realistic, but they gave the room a melancholic ambience. The walls were a dark bluish-grey colour, and the furniture was approximately the same shade, only lighter.

I was lounged on a soft, large bed, and there was no one by my side. The windows were covered by white blinds, and the house was quiet. As I sat up, I remembered last night; the drinking, the dancing, Damian and the tears on Ellie's face, and after that, more drinking and partying and...blank. I had no idea how I ended up in that room.

I was wearing the same clothes as the other day (thank God), my white off the shoulder sweater and my black velvet skirt, and I was pretty sure I reeked of alcohol. My jacket and phone were nowhere to be seen, so I glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. It was eleven past ten AM.

I put my boots on and got up from the bed slowly, extending my arms upwards and yawning. I still had a minor headache, but nothing compared to yesterday's throbbing pain.

I walked to the mirror and cringed. My curly hair was tangled and messy, my eyeliner wings were now non-existent, smudged around my eyes. I looked like a panda.

I headed to the bathroom and washed my face thoroughly, until I erased any trace of make-up, except my mascara, that still clung to my lashes. My eyes looked slightly bloodshot, probably because of the lack of sleep and excessive drinking. I desperately needed a glass of water. And a shower. But overall, I managed to make myself look somewhat decent. Half-decent.

I arranged the bed sheets and was about to leave the bedroom, when I noticed that the third drawer of the dresser was ajar. I should have left it just the way it was, but I felt compelled to close it properly. The drawer contained some old t-shirts and socks. Underneath the pile of t-shirts was a rectangular edge sticking out, like that of a book. I peeked clandestinely at the entrance to make sure that no one was there, and I took the book out. It was heavy, the size of an encyclopedia, but not voluminous. It was coated in faux pink fur and smelt of a scented candle.

What I mistook for a book was actually a photo album. And just by looking at it, by running my fingertips on top of the cover, I knew it belonged to Monica. But why was it here, hidden in that drawer, in a vacant house, instead of her own room? I opened it carefully, as if there were something dangerous inside.

That surely felt like trespassing. I traced the letters, picturing Monica right next to me, writing those words with a furry black pen. She really liked fur. I braced myself for finding something spectacular, out of the ordinary that needed to be kept secret, but the album contained nothing of the sort. There were photographs of her as a child, and she smiled in all of them, with her big blue eyes, chubby cheeks and braided blonde hair. She almost looked nothing like the statuesque Monica I knew, but the resemblance was still there, in the shape of her eyes, of her nose, of her impish, adorable smile.

I fleeted through the pages that consisted of a myriad of photos of her family, of little Devon, until the pictures no longer depicted her childhood. I stumbled upon more recent photographs. Monica and Avery blowing a kiss towards the camera, looking as gorgeous as ever; Monica and Devon outside a big mansion, Monica...

Monica kissed on the cheek by a tall young man, whose features were completely covered by her own. I could only see his profile: the fine line of his chiseled face, his brown hair, and his clothes: a white shirt and dark grey jeans, black sneakers. She had white ripped shorts and a red crop top, and her blonde hair was secured in a loose ponytail. She was smiling at the camera, her arm wrapped around the boy's waist.

Not just any boy. I recognised him instantly, the second I laid eyes on the photograph. There was no way I could mistake that jawline, and that soft hair. I swallowed the lump that had formed in my throat.

That boy was Damian.

I heard a rumbling sound downstairs that startled me. I debated between putting the photo album back or exploring it till the end. Did I really want to see more?  I was completely flabbergasted, and I didn't know what to think anymore. That photograph was proof that Damian and Monica had never hated each other. Did that mean that they faked their fights in school? If yes, then why? Were they just friends, or more than friends? Although my opinion was only based on a single picture, they appeared to be more than friends.

Confusion. Vexation. It inundated me like a tidal wave, and among those feelings, a new one arose: jealousy. But Monica had a boyfriend, I reminded myself, and felt even more confused. We had never met him, and she rarely talked about him. At least, she rarely mentioned him when I was around. All I knew was that he was studying in a different school and was really good at Physics, and the fact that on the day of the murder he was babysitting his aunt's child. He must have been at the funeral, but there were a lot of people there, and if he had been, I wouldn't have known. Almost no one would have known, perhaps only her parents and Devon. Maybe Avery, since she was her close friend. One thing was clear: Damian and her boyfriend were two different people.

I heard footsteps and I quickly slipped the photo album back to its place and closed the drawer, stepping far away from it. I got out of the room and walked down the stairs habitually, meeting Devon halfway.

"Morning." he greeted me with a sheepish grin. Just like me, he was wearing the same clothes as yesterday, and his shirt was slightly rumpled. He looked like he hadn't slept at all, but the weariness of his face didn't reach his lively grey eyes. "How's your head?"

"Not that bad, actually. How's yours?" I asked with a chuckle as we headed to the kitchen. The huge living room was a mess. There were empty food packages by the fireplace, empty bottles on the tables, and the marble floor was stained and sticky from numerous drinks that had been spilled on it.

"Could have been better." he said whimsically. "I hope you like banana pancakes." he motioned to the right with his hand to direct me to the kitchen. "I would've cooked you something, but as I rarely come here, there wasn't any product but canned corn."

The room was cleaner than the living room. It smelt of fresh air and delicious food. I hopped on a chair and I placed my elbow on the glass table, propping my chin in my palm.

"I love them. You know, you really shouldn't have gone through so much trouble for me. I can pay for the pancakes..." I started awkwardly, but he laughed and sat on the chair next to me.

"Don't be ridiculous. You're my guest. The least I can do is buy you pancakes."

I shook my head, suddenly feeling terrible. I stayed the night at his house (and I didn't even remember how it had happened) and I put him in an uncomfortable position in which he'd feel obliged to buy me breakfast.

"That's really thoughtful of you. I appreciate it." I uttered, giving him a bashful smile.

It was the first time when I felt nervous around Devon. We always joked around and bantered, but I knew he never took it seriously, and as a matter of fact, neither did I. Although I had had a crush on him since I was about thirteen, I never truly imagined that fours years later, I'd be in his house, having hangover breakfast with him; I never truly thought that in his eyes could glisten something more than brotherly affection. He had had a lot of girlfriends over the years, all very different from me.

"I'll help you clean up the house afterwards." I suggested, glancing at the mess in the living room through the open door. "It's the least I can do."

He frowned softly, looking at me as if I had made a weird joke.

"Clean up the house? No, don't worry about it. I'll call the maid."

"You have a maid." I averred unsurely, almost questioningly. 

"Two of them. Miss Holt and Lewis. They're both lovely. But I think miss Lewis will manage by herself."

"Oh. Okay." I nodded, as he slid the pancake towards me and handed me a cup of green tea. I thanked him and cleared my throat. "How did I...end up in that room?"

"It's my room. How much do you remember from last night?"

It made sense, the fact that he kept something of Monica's, that held so many memories.

"I wanted to text Ellie and then you approached me. I had some drinks, danced with you, Avery, Paul and the others, and...that's about it." I recalled, the events unwinding in my mind like a blurry, old movie.

"We partied till four AM, and then everyone went home. You fell asleep on the couch and I didn't want to wake you up, so I carried you to my room." he related, quickly adding: "I slept in my parents' bedroom."

"Thank you. I'm sorry for causing you trouble." I apologised, taking a small bite of the pancake with the fork.

"I don't mind this kind of trouble." he grinned, revealing perfectly white teeth.

I smiled in return, admiring his model physique. He placed his elbows on the table, his fingers intertwined. He had taken off his dark blue blazer, and was in a thin white sweater that moulded onto his torso, showing off the shape of his toned arms. With that cheeky smile, he reminded me of Monica, which reminded me of the photograph I saw with Damian kissing her cheek. I felt my stomach knotting up.

"I might have overheard your conversation on the phone." I admitted out of the blue, placing my fork on the table.

I noticed his hands jerking swiftly as he eyed me with a raise of his eyebrows. For a moment I thought that he looked alarmed, but it could have been my imagination.

"Which one?" he asked calmly, almost teasingly.

"Near the library. You were talking with someone about a psychopath who needs to be dealt with." I quoted, watching him in the eye.

The corners of his lips sagged down temporarily and he shrugged his broad shoulders.

"Perhaps. I talk with a lot of people on the phone."

"You don't talk with a lot of people about Damian, do you?" I inquired forthrightly, managing a friendly tone.

"Why do you think I was referring to Damian? He wouldn't be the only psychopath around." he affirmed with a snicker.

Despite his attitude and confident posture, I could see that the subject was touchy for him. I didn't relent.

"I don't think you were referring to him. I'm sure of it. You just had a pretty intense fight with him, the principal called your father - I mean your uncle - to school, and you were frustrated. So you told someone about it. That's what I would do." I asserted casually, not meaning to sound like I was suspecting him of anything.

"Okay, Sherlock. Guilty as charged." he laughed. "Yes, I was talking about Damian. I was angry with him. I didn't mean anything by it, though. I don't intend on assassinating him any time soon. Though God knows he deserves it."

"Maybe he doesn't. Have you ever thought that perhaps he doesn't have anything to do with Monica's murder?"

"Nope." he replied harshly and resolutely, taking me by surprise. He immediately soothed his timbre and continued: "I'm not only keen on blaming Damian because he has no alibi whatsoever and he's an ass. Call it stupidity or whatever you like, but in a way, I hope it's him. Because otherwise, it means that the killer could be anyone. And I don't think I can handle suspecting each person that I talk to of murder."

I analysed his point of view in silence. His frank confession left me speechless. I pronged the pancake with the fork just to do something. It didn't really make sense to me. Clearly, he had seen the photograph of Monica and Damian as well. Had he forgotten that at one point, they were friends? More than friends? Did their relationship end badly? Was that another reason why he was suspecting Damian? Too many questions swarmed in my head. I had to get answers, but I didn't want to be too insistent. I hoped that Devon would tell me about it when he trusted me enough. After a while, I voiced:

"It's not stupidity. But it is ignorance. Accusing Damian is the easy way, but until you know the truth, it won't bring you any kind of solace. I can't avow his innocence, I'm only entitled to avowing my own, but all I'm asking you is to consider that there is a possibility, no matter how weak, that he didn't do it."

He listened to me pensively, then shook his head slightly and said appreciatively:

"You and Joe are cut from the same cloth."

Joe. The nickname rolled smoothly off his tongue, and just by the way he pronounced it, I could tell that it was a friend of his.

"Is that who you were talking to on the phone?" I assumed.

"Yeah. Since Monica's demise, that boy's ruined. But can you blame him?" he said, his voice marked by melancholy.

"Were they close?"

He looked at me queerly, chewing on his lower lip.

"Of course. He was her boyfriend after all."

Oh. Oooooh. The absentee boyfriend. This was the first time he mentioned him to me. So they were still keeping touch, three months after the murder. Perhaps I would have seen pictures of him in the album if Devon hadn't come to check up on me.

"And where is he now?"

"He sought refuge in Bristol for some time, to take his mind off...everything. But he'll be back by Christmas. You must meet him sometime. I have a feeling that you'll get along. He's nothing like his ill-tempered brother."

"I look forward to meeting him then." I replied affably.

I had a lot of questions to ask him.

***

After chatting and eating, Devon offered to drive me home. I politely declined at first, but he insisted. I had three missed calls from Ellie and one from mom. I called my mom and told her I'd be home soon.

It was a rainy, gloomy day, with no trace of sun. Devon parked by my house and all I could do was hope that my parents weren't looking out the window. I thanked Devon one more time for everything and kissed him on the cheek, heading to my house.

My dad was the one to open the door, dressed in his usual black sweatpants and loose pullover. Despite owning a restaurant, my father was often casually-dressed and very simple in manner, humble and unpretentious. In complete opposition stood my mom, who always looked ready for the red carpet. She was very picky about her appearance, very self-conscious, but not in an exaggerated way; strict, but not authoritarian; with high standards, but realistic and kind.

"Good morning, Rosie. Raining outside, isn't it?" he asked, inspecting my damp, slightly frizzy hair. His chocolate wavy hair was only starting to turn grey, around his ears, but it wasn't that noticeable.

"Yes, it is." I answered, taking off my boots and my jacket. I couldn't wait to get out of these clothes and take a long, refreshing shower.

"Did you enjoy the party?"

"I did. It was lovely." I said hurriedly, hoping he wouldn't ask any more, especially about sleeping in at Ellie's. I hated liars and I didn't want to turn into one.

Yesterday's scene with Damian flashed before my eyes; his soft gesture of taking away a strand of hair from my hair, his intense, piercing look when eyeing me. And on the other side, Ellie's tears and her storming words: He likes you. He really, really likes you. That reminded me that I had to call her as soon as possible.

"Where's mom?" I inquired, attempting to change the subject.

"Oh, about that." he chuckled, his brown eyes filling with amusement. "Your classmate came by earlier to drop something for you. He engaged with your mom in conversation and she invited him over for tea, to wait for you. They're in the kitchen."

I was pretty sure my jaw dropped to the floor.

"What classmate?" My voice trembled. Oh God. Just not who I think it is...

"His father always swings by our restaurant. He's such a dedicated customer. Damian, I believe. Damian Belfort."