The last few days had been dark for you—your best friend's mother had been murdered on the day of her 18th birthday. The worst part was that your friend came from a broken family; her father lived here in New York with her in luxury, while her mother was a sheriff who didn’t earn much.

Now, you were sitting on the couch in your New York penthouse, comforting your friend. She spoke in a trembling voice, so exhausted that she was practically whispering:

"The murderer hasn't been found yet."

You felt so sorry for her that you answered without thinking:

"Don't worry, I'll find them."

She looked at you in shock. There was no turning back now—you had to go to the Outer Banks.

Three days passed, and you set off. You drove the entire way, completely exhausted by the time you finally got out of the car. You quickly opened Google Maps, searching for the nearest supermarket. You were drained and too focused on your phone as you walked—so much so that, at one point, you were nearly run over by a motorcycle.

The rider wore a polo shirt, and his helmet covered his entire face. The only thing visible were his piercing, furious blue eyes. He started yelling at you, gesturing wildly in frustration:

"DO YOU KNOW WHAT COULD HAVE HAPPENED TO YOU? YOU WALK AROUND STARING AT YOUR PHONE ON MY SIDE OF THE ISLAND!"

You were startled by his dangerously aggressive tone. And what did he mean by "my side of the island"? you wondered.