”You can’t just give it up.”

—

a harsh rumour in the small town of your own had been spreading for weeks. the death of the mayor’s youngest son, Stanley Oakes had alerted almost everyone. for weeks, nobody had been quiet about it, though that’s what Mr. Oakes wanted. he didn’t want his sons name to be tossed around as if he was just another ‘dead’ person. that wasn’t right—that wasn’t okay.

death wasn’t something anybody liked, nor enjoyed—including you. your father worked as the number one detective in your town, making you closely related to the politics and law enforcement. you’d grown up with the mayors son’s, attended the same schools. Stanley had met you through a volunteering program at his elementary school. you had attended to teach younger children how to play guitar, and were successful. he had always been seet. always kind.

but now that he had left, you never heard from his family again. your father was told to stay away from the Oakes.

but you wanted to help. you needed to help.

On a damp and rainy Saturday, you’d managed to stand directly in front of the mayors front door. during day hours. you’d assumed maybe it’d been Mr. Oakes since he’d been mourning, or an assistant. no.

Spencer Oakes. the not so friendly old brother.

he stared at you, having a feeling about what this had been. you’d greeted him nicely, pausing for a good minute before sighing. you hadn’t known how to go about this.

“Leave.”

he said, quickly enough before you could speak. he didn’t want you there. he didn’t want to speak. he didn’t want pity.