The careless sun seeps in through the gap in my curtains, causing me to wake up long before necessary. It shines right where my line of vision is, my head still resting on Elliot's chest. Memories of the night before play on a loop inside my mind. Prom. The text messages. Sleeping with Elliot.

What a night!

He's still snoozing next to me, his arm draped across my stomach. It's a nice sensation. Heavy. Safe. Light snores escape his pouting lips, the sight so precious I almost weep. The positioning of his head has his warm breath fanning my cheek. Tickling it. I don't want to wake him up, so I slyly wiggle myself free and slide from the bed. Thankfully, he's still dead to the world by the time I'm redressed and checking my phone for the time. Five, thirty AM.

My God!

I head downstairs, passing Mom sprawled out on the sofa; a blanket half covering her. No one else is up yet and I take it upon myself to get some investigating in, needing my mind to be doing something. Anything. Solving this case is of top priority.

"But first, coffee," I mutter to myself, grabbing some milk from the fridge.

As I'm pouring coffee granules into the grounder, my attention goes to the drawer where my birth certificate once lived. Mom's right. We're missing something here. Something vital. The killer is clever—that much is obvious—but everyone has their flaws. We all slip up from time to time. And if they were really inside our kitchen at some point, surely we should be looking for evidence?

I abandon my need for caffeine and head towards the drawer, peaking inside. Perhaps they left a trail? A clue, maybe?

Nothing looks out of the ordinary and I'm moments away from closing it when an old newspaper stares back at me. Mom always keeps them for the crosswords—a habit she's had since as far back as I can remember. Shaun once bought her an entire crossword book for Christmas and still—she insists on saving the ones she gets in each newspaper.

I pull it from its hiding place and study the filled in boxes, chilled to the bone. The words, Sin and Revenge are written in block capitals, amongst some other questionable phrases. I check the clues and soon realise that those are not the intended words for the puzzle. Whoever wrote this was clearly stating a message. A very angry one.

I turn the paper over, recognising the face splashed on the front cover from somewhere. A young, smiling boy. But who is he? I search my brain, desperate for some answers. Some clarity. Anything.

I read the headline, confirming that this boy—whoever he is—died at a high school party two years ago—age fifteen. He lived in a neighbouring town and didn't attend Lincoln.

So why do I recognise him?

For the life of me, I cant remember. His identity is on the tip on my tongue. Subconsciously there but not quite reachable. Then suddenly—out of nowhere—it hits me.

Ben—Mrs. Jones' son.

That day I thanked her for the casserole, she had a photograph of him on her desk. But when I asked about him, she made it seem like he was still alive. Spoke about him in present tense. Then again, is that really so odd? According to this article, he was killed in a tragic accident. If I were her, I wouldn't want to bring it up either.

Unless...

I read through the small article, gathering information about his tragic end.

Fifteen-year-old Benjamin Jones was killed at a high school party on Friday evening, in what appears to be a game of truth or dare?  gone wrong.  The details surrounding his unfortunate death are not yet known but seven seniors at Meadow Hall high school are currently being questioned by police. In an interview, Benjamin's Mother—Catherine Jones—vows to get justice for her baby, even going as far as to say she'll take matters into her own hands if need be. "He was murdered," she claims. "And those responsible need punished."

I scramble for a seat, suddenly lightheaded. Desperate to make sense of it all. If Mrs. Jones is the killer, why target Oak Valley? Seven students from Ben's school were taken in for questioning. But what links those seven to our seven? And why now? Why wait two years?

There's only one way to find out.

I need to talk to her.

Now!

****

I consider telling someone of my discovery but decide against it, figuring I need to gather more evidence first. After all, accusing people in the past has backfired and I'm not about to let history repeat itself. I do—however—text Elliot in the hopes that should anything go wrong, he'll know where I am. And yes—it's careless of me to go in without backup but I need to act fast if I'm going to help him. My own boyfriend.

I end up heading towards Mrs. Jones' house on foot; the world having yet to wake up. It takes no more than ten minutes, given how close she lives to us. That—and I know all the shortcuts. Her home is a quaint building, perfect for a person living on their own. Ivy grips at the exterior, the last of winter clinging to the roof in puffs of snow. The curtains are all drawn, floral in pattern. Not your typical choice for a psychopathic serial killer. Then again, if I've learned anything from investigating this case, it's that people can be deceiving. What we think we know about someone can be flipped over in a matter of seconds.

I eventually arrive at her front door, my heart a jackhammer. Every ounce of confidence from earlier has been sucked out of me, nowhere to be seen. Still, I continue onward and press her doorbell. Dread seeps inside my being as I await her arrival, poisonous in its advances. I hear shuffling. The click of a lock. And then—

"Helena."

She doesn't look surprised seeing me.

Say something!

"Can we talk?" I ask.

She nods, leading me into her kitchen. It's a modest area, both in deco and size. Her signature shade crops up; lemon walls, lemon appliances. Actual lemons.

"I've been expecting you," she admits, offering me a seat while she fills the kettle with water. "I knew it wouldn't be long until you figured it out."

I swallow past the lump in my throat. "So, you admit it then?"

She nods.

"Why?" I ask, thankful for the kitchen island separating us. "Why do it?"

She scoops two tablespoons of tealeaves into a pot, precise in her measurements. "Payback."

"But your victims had nothing to do with Ben's death," I argue. "How're they linked?"

"They're not," she replies, poring cream into a small jug. "I picked my victims based on what they represent."

"And what's that?" I question.

"Sins," she says. "Seven, to be exact."

Elliot was right.

"But you already knew that," she adds, smiling. "D'ya know what happened to Ben's murderers?"

I shake my head, kicking myself for not Googling the outcome of the investigation on my way over here.

"Nothing," she claims, eyes sad. "They dared my boy to jump off of a balcony and they each got given new identities and a fresh start."

I'll admit, my heart goes out to her.

"I couldn't punish those directly responsible. But I could bring justice to those who have sinned."

She adds sugar cubes to her concoction.

"Tea?"

"No, thank you."

The switch on the kettle flicks.

"Years of listening to teenagers moan about their secrets has taken its toll on me." She fills the pot with boiling water. "I used to love my job but after Ben died, I lost that. I lost everything. I was just this massive ball of anger in search of revenge. Still am."

I shuffle in my seat, feeling uncomfortable.

"But to kill people," I begin. "How can you justify it?"

"Sienna and Chad did terrible things," she states. "They're sinners."

"By your standards," I argue. "They deserved punishment, sure. But not to be killed so ruthlessly."

She shrugs.

"And what about Principle Wilson? Did he deserve to be murdered too?"

She tuts. "I didn't kill him. His suicide was just as much shock to me as it was to you."

"But you drove him to it!"

Another shrug. "He was sleeping with one of his students and changing her grades."

And therefore, deserved it in her mind.

"I don't agree with you," I state. "I don't think that was your call to make."

She sips from her cup, savouring the taste.

"Why involve Safa and Lucy?" I ask, changing course. "And why this obsession with sex?"

"It was nothing personal," she insists. "I simply needed Safa and Lucy for my plan to work." Another sip. "And the whole sex thing is rather poetic, don't you think?"

"And my Mom?" I enquire, desperate to know every little detail. "Why target her?"

She falters for a moment, seemingly thinking through her response. "You had a right to know who your Dad was."

"Again, not your call to make."

She smiles.

"How did you know?" I ask. "Mom swears she never told anyone."

"You look like him," she counters. "Like Jason."

"And what? You just thought you'd take it upon yourself to conduct a DNA test?"

"Your Mom is the one who asked for truth."

I huff, slightly irked by her blasé attitude. Her calmness towards mass murder.

"The way I see it, I've exposed people for who they really are, including your boyfriend."

My blood boils.

"Elliot did what he did to protect his sister."

"He still buried his Dad."

Again, I have no idea how she knows this.

"What will it take for you not to expose him?" I ask, willing to do just about anything.

Within reason.

"You really care about him, don't you?"

I nod. "He's just protecting his sister."

"It's out of my control," she shares, regretfully.

What does that even mean?

"You're no better than those people who aided in Ben's death, ya know?" I state. "You're a cold-blooded murderer."

She smiles. "You're right."

An uneasy feeling washes over me.

"No sinner should go unpunished."

"Meaning?" I ask.

"Meaning, I'm going to be with Ben now."

Huh?

"There's poison in my tea."

I jump from my chair, inspecting her empty mug. "Why?"

"This is part of my plan, Helena. This is what needs to happen."

"No!" I argue. "You're just a grieving Mother. We can get you help!"

Even as I say this, the sentiment sounds false. There's no fixing what she's done. It's jail or death. No in between.

"Please!" I beg, reaching for my cellphone.

I immediately call for an ambulance, explaining my situation to the man on the other end of the receiver.

"Do you know what substance has been ingested?" he asks.

I turn to Mrs. Jones, her gaze a little unfocused.

"What have you taken?" I question, gently shaking her shoulders.

She starts to foam at the mouth, trembling.

"Please hurry," I plead. "She's deteriorating."

She falls to the floor with an almighty clatter, having lost all use of her legs. I run to her aid, needing her to be okay. To live.

"Is the patient conscious?

"No," I cry. She isn't breathing, either."

I tilt her head, so that the substance coming from her mouth empties out onto the carpet. I consider giving her mouth to mouth but am advised against doing so by the operator. If I do, I risk contaminating myself with whatever poison she has ingested.

Instead, I sit with her, holding her as the life slowly leaves her body. I don't know how long I remain on the kitchen floor with her, but she's cold to the touch, completely limp.

Dead.

I go to call Mom when a sudden thought occurs.

I was with Mrs. Jones when Mom's text message was sent and this was after Lucy handed over the burner phone to the police in Ohio. Which means, either she has ninja-like texting skills, or she has someone working with her.

The day I found out Jason was my dad, Chloe presented the possibility of the killer being two people. An older person in cahoots with a younger one. Perhaps a student?

I put away my phone and start rummaging around in her drawers, figuring I wont get the chance to once the paramedics get here. I haven't come this far to give up now. I need answers. Mrs. Jones being the killer makes sense but there are certain gaps. Like how a woman with no athletic credits is supposed to have out wrestled the captain of the cheer team and strangled her. Chad too, for that matter. Although, the fact he was killed with a weapon might explain that. But what about Safa and Lucy? They each gave a differing age to the person talking to them on the other end of the Instagram chat. To Safa, they were old. Lucy, young.

"Come on, come on," I chant, taring through her house like a woman on a mission.

I enter her living room and search through her desk of papers. Nothing substantial stares back at me until I stumble upon my birth certificate. The part which is supposed to state my Father is left blank, much like I expected. I pull it free from the other documents, brining attention to the one directly underneath it. Another birth certificate. Shaun's. Dad's name is where it's supposed to be, right next to—

No, it can't be.

Unlike mine, nothing has been left blank and listed as his mother is none other than the woman lying dead on her kitchen floor.

Catherine Jones.

****

H o l y. S h i t.

Be honest...who guessed Mrs Jones?

;)