I go to bed earlier in the evening while Lizzie sits beside me in silence, an arm on my shoulder that I don't try to shrug off awkwardly. I don't cry - I don't have the energy and I don't think I need to. Instead, I've got this burning motivation to get to the bottom of everything, which is what's keeping me awake for most of the night, drifting in and out of weary sleep.

The song keeps going round and round in my head, no matter how much I try to block it out.

Looks like Bobby didn't run fast enough, did he?

My jaw clenches. I hate my thoughts sometimes.

By the time the sunlight peeks through the gap in my bedroom curtains, I'm glaring at the ceiling and trying to stop replaying my renditions of the twisted poem the murderer left, a glitchy 'Run Bobby Run' instrumental in the background.

Roses are red, My parents are dead, I can't get that stupid song out of my head.

Roses are red, Because they both bled, Now I can't sleep when I go to bed.

I frown at myself, sit up and rub my eyes with a softened glare of thought. The murderer must have left it, as some kind of taunt, a twisted threat. What else did I know for sure?

I go to grab my casebook, but then I hesitate, thinking back to Mia's words. She was right, really. This wasn't some flimsy lead of a suspected follower or an Agatha Christie page-turner. This was real life, and my parents were real, Bobby and Judith Cassia. Just because they're dead now, does that make it right to study it? Attempt to solve everything before the police, or that detective inspector, Brunsley? They, being trained for years and solving several cases and confusions, and me reading murder mysteries and studying people's expressions?

Another way to look at it is being determined to solve it for the very reason that my Mum and Dad were found murdered in their own house, with some 60′s song with my dad's name in it and a couple of roses shoved in their hands. The Case of Paranoia was a starting point, but it could be even more relevant now, now that they were gone.

Should it be as easy as it seems to be to accept that they've died like this, though? Some people can't even say it, denying the truth for as long as they can. And though I don't really see the point in that, never have, everyone is different, grieves differently, and here I am not even knowing where to start.

Why should you? You would cry more if you were closer to them. You barely knew them, and they died barely knowing you.

I flinch at my sharp thoughts, getting up off the bed and pulling open the curtains, letting in the natural morning light as I look out at the street. It hasn't changed a bit, obviously, but for some reason, I almost expect it to have, as if my parents made it how it is. Everything is unaffected by it, but everyone is.

Then another fact hits me, hard. I'm an orphan now.

Well, thank god I'm eighteen, so I won't be the next Annie or some geek of a Tracy Beaker at a loud, grubby Home. And Mum and Dad probably left a lot to me in their wills, including the house. Imperfectly perfect timing.

What about the funeral? Had they planned it?

As you do, since everyone plans on being murdered.

I roll my eyes and groan to myself, going back to make my bed and sitting down with my casebook open in my lap, pen at the ready. It feels odd and uncomfortable writing about them and cracking open their lives now that they'd lost it, as if they were two fictional characters used to make a story interesting. It's a stupid feeling, of course, and I lose it little by little as I write, changing the perspective to a better one. The point is, they're still my parents, dead or alive, and so I'm taking it upon myself to fix it, not leave it to Joseph Brunsley and Charlie Doyle. Besides, although we did drift apart, I did know them, and a person can't change that much within a few years. Well, a good few. Their work was practically their life, and I knew whatever was left to be personal.

My pen lingers above the top line of the next page, with a side note for The Case of Paranoia being connected and joined with the following case. What do I call it? I don't want to put something like The Case of The Cassia Killer or something cliche like that. It needed to sound... right. It needed to describe the scene I walked in on last evening. The music, the bodies, the roses and blood-

Then my eyes widen as I'm struck with inspiration, and I nearly smile at the name I've given the killer - if it wasn't about what it was about.

The RoseBlood Killer

What I know:

Bobby Cassia had suspicions of being followed by someone he recognised but couldn't quite place at the party-gathering on Wednesday evening (timings mentioned previously). Bobby and Judith Cassia were found murdered by their daughter Holly Cassia - me - on her 18th birthday. They were dead in the basement, lying next to each other with a single red rose in their hands, thorns dug into their skin. A missing vinyl record from a present was playing on an old record player we had stashed away in the basement, identified to be a Lesley Gore song, Run Bobby Run, released in 1963. A note was wedged under the needle (attached below).

Evidence:

A threatening love note was found by Mia Williams, a friend of Holly Cassia, presumably left by the RoseBlood Killer.

Mia and most of the guests were upstairs while Holly unwrapped gifts, but one may have sneaked downstairs and committed the crime. However, not everyone in attendance was familiar with Holly Cassia, and vice-versa.

Timings:

The bodies were found in the basement by Holly Cassia at (approximately) 3.01 p.m. and were last seen alive by her at 2.27 p.m.

Explanations:

The blood wasn't dry, and the approximate time it takes for blood to dry is an hour. This means that the murder was committed between 2.28 - 2.58 p.m. since Holly went to investigate at 2.58 p.m. and no one was seen outside the main room where the guests were.

Follow up:

Find the guest list and copy all communication and notes from Bobby and Judith's diaries and technology onto my own before they're taken as evidence by the police.

I pause, then quickly shove the case book back under my bed, rushing out of my room to go to my parent's room in search of the list and any other information. They could come any minute, and Brunsley would be sure to take them away to investigate. I scowl at the thought of a complete stranger invading their privacy and picking apart their lives, because they were dead and couldn't do a thing about it. If he was doing this, I was going to beat him to it.

Lizzie is still asleep in a guest bedroom, so it's easy to sneak past the closed door to their room, padding past their empty bed to their chests of drawers and bedside tables. It's a disconcerting feeling, their absence from the house and their room - not that they'd be at home if they were still alive. They'd most likely be working, of course.

Well, not 'of course'. Now things are complicated, all of my assumptions and everything I'd dismissed are suddenly suspicious and on uncertain terms.

It's easy enough to find their phones and iPads and laptops and notebooks, so I run back to my room within the minute, attaching the devices to my own laptop and downloading everything on there as fast as I can onto a locked folder. Then I take photos of every page of their books, no matter how dull, numbers and currency signs and addresses going on for ages, until a memo slipped out of one of my mum's books.

Holly's birthday - guests:

I can't hold back a smug smirk, and I take a couple of photos of it before I push my laptop lid down and take everything back to their room again, leaving it all exactly the way I'd found it and wiping the surfaces with my sleeve to get rid of any fingerprints if the police were dramatic enough to try it. I stop at the door, look back at the bed, and slowly go over to it and pick up a pillow from Mum's side. A ghost of her sweet, subtly strong perfume lingers on the fabric, and Dad's aftershave and Dove soap are there too. For a weird moment, I think I might cry again.

The distinct sound of a car pulling up outside snaps me out of it in a heartbeat.

I quickly leave the room after putting the pillow back, and I pretend to just be leaving my room as Lizzie steps out of hers, a warm, sad smile on her face as her gaze meets mine. She opens her mouth to ask how I'm doing, but a brisk few knocks at the front door interrupts, and I bite the inside of my lip, readying myself for the second round of questions.