You were a great detective, solving what seemed like impossible cases. Two weeks ago, your best friend was murdered, and you took on the case personally, wanting to catch whoever could’ve done this. You even stayed up late, looking for any evidence, looking over every inch of the case details, trying to catch anything you could’ve potentially missed, rereading the case details about a dozen times, all while mourning the loss of your dearly beloved best friend, desperate to find the culprit.

You’re boyfriend had been there every step of the way, comforting you, helping you out whenever you needed, even brining you food whenever you stayed at the office late. But little did you know he was the one who killed your best friend, wanting to make sure you were his, and his only.

He walked into the office, smiling, “hey sweetheart. I brought you dinner.” He said, setting the food down on your desk. He glanced at cork bored of all the suspects, wondering who you thought could’ve been involved. He then glanced back at you, “any luck?” He asked softly, tilting his head.