It had become an inability to trail your eyes away from the TV. Your half-full backpack laid unzipped at your feet, one of your hands frozen on the zipper. Originally, you had come downstairs for a cup of coffee, but at your mother's horrified gasp, you found yourself frozen, hyper-focused, and sitting on the edge of your couch.

The adrenaline rush made you feel shameful. 

You knew Casey and Steve. Hell, you even used to be friends with Casey before you quit cheerleading sophomore year, although she still waved at you in halls, even though your friendship dwindled. And since the start of the year, you tutored her boyfriend, Steve, in Precalculus after his football practice. Or you used to.

"Are you ready to go yet?"

At the sound, your posture went rigid, but it was quick to ease with the realization of whom the voice belonged to. Billy's shadow loomed over your figure from behind the couch, but despite his morose tone, the corner of his lips was twitched into his usual smirk.

It's just Billy, not a murderous lunatic.

"Geez, Billy," you breathed, a hand pressed to your chest as you shook with laughter. These days, it's like he got off on scaring you, always coming over to pick you up four or five minutes early, knowing you'll be startled by his presence. A gust of wind ushered inside your home. Your eyes finding your front door agape, shaking with the breeze. You didn't remember unlocking it, but you must've if Billy had gotten inside. "I didn't see you come in."

Honestly, you're surprised he didn't have a spare key. You've known him forever. Billy's a young adult romance writer's daydream come to life— the perfect boy next door.

Not that'd you'd ever admit that. No, no. That small little crush—the one that still nagged in the back of your head whenever Billy said anything particularly sweet to you, or when he pulled another endearing nickname for you from out of nowhere— died a long time ago. When he started dating your friend, Sidney, in 8th grade to be exact. 

Billy liked to flirt. 

He liked to watch your cheeks turn rosy, and nibble on your lip to stop from smiling. He told you so himself, so you know it meant nothing. Merely, he was comfortable enough with you to know that you two would never cross that line so he could say what he wanted. 

Because you two were such great friends.

"It was Casey and Steve," you announced, turning back to the TV when you notice his attention is focused behind you. "They were—."

"Gutted," he finished for you. "Yeah, I heard."

There's something sinister is how Billy spoke, lowly and monotone. More often than not, his voice is emotionless and his expression cold— a stark contrast to how he used to be; when he was happy to waste the day away, eating popcorn with you and chatting about how unbelievable horror movies were becoming. You were as thick as thieves, practically joined at the hip. You can't quite remember when his switch had flipped, but it wasn't long before the incident last year. He was cold, distant. You still miss him, even when he's standing right behind you.

Zipping your bag, you stood and tossed a strap over your shoulder, looking at Billy expectantly. He's already pushing himself off the back of the couch when you said that you were ready. Billy muttered, "Finally," underneath his breath.

Billy's car was in your eyeline when you got the forgone sense that you were forgetting something. Your brain was foggy, but the sight of him holding your car door open for you, it cleared.

"Wait!" you exclaimed. The car door slammed shut, and you could hear your neighbor's verbal confusion as you ventured between your houses.

Your feet clacked against the cobblestone as your eyes caught onto white fluff. Your sheep had mud on her ear, but besides that. she was perfectly pristine– just as she was before you threw her from your window. The shock on Billy's face was incredible as you tossed the stuffed animal into his car, too lazy and prideful to walk it back into your room.

Mrs. Lamb looked seriously ridiculous in the backseat of Billy's convertible.

He couldn't have held back a smile if he tried, and he tried. Baring his teeth in a grin, he yanked his passenger seat door open once more. "Get in the car, dork."

Happily throwing yourself into the white leather seat, your hand fiddled with radio as Billy entered the driver's seat. His engine roared. When the sound cleared, static overwhelmed almost every station until you find the exact one you were looking for.

Channel Five News played distinctly, "There are not many clues about whom the killer may be, but the sheriffs in this town are searching for a suspect..."

Billy didn't mind that you took over his stereo. In fact, he was listening too.