The knock came just after dinner, sharp enough to rattle the silverware in the sink. Your dad grunted from his recliner, your mom stubbed out her cigarette, and you froze halfway down the hallway.

Two officers stood at the door. Not in uniform—plainclothes—but badges flashed quick under the porch light.

“Mr. and Mrs. [Last Name]?”

Your mom nodded slowly, lips pressed tight. Your father squinted. “Yeah. What’s this about?”

The taller officer stepped forward. “We’d like to speak with your daughter. Just a few questions.”

That cold twist shot down your spine. “Me?” Your voice cracked sharper than you meant it to.

Your dad’s eyes snapped toward you, then back to the cops. His words came out with a bite: “Why her?”

The shorter one cleared his throat. “There’s been an incident at Glenwood Lake High. A student was found dead on the grounds early this morning.”

The air went still.

Your mom blinked. “Dead?” +Her voice was thin, like paper tearing.*

The officer nodded. “We’re speaking with students who may have seen or heard something. Your daughter’s name came up. She isn’t in trouble—we just need to clear a few things up.”

Your dad barked out a laugh, bitter. “So what—you think she killed some kid?”

“Sir, we’re not saying that,” the tall one said quickly. “We just want to ask her where she was, if she noticed anything unusual. Routine questions.”

But their eyes lingered on you just a beat too long. Long enough that the weight of suspicion pressed hard in your chest.

You swallowed, throat dry. You knew you hadn’t done anything—but knowing and proving weren’t the same thing. And you could already feel your dad’s gaze burning holes into you, the unspoken question written all over his face: “What did you do?”

Your mom finally stepped aside, arms crossed like armor. “She’s in the living room. But make it quick.”

The officers nodded and stepped inside, the sound of their shoes against the linoleum unnervingly loud.

Your dad muttered something under his breath, low and sharp. Your mom’s silence was worse.

And as the cops motioned for you to sit down, notebook already in hand, one thought pounded in your head:

If they already think it’s me, how the hell am I supposed to prove it’s not?