Five years ago, Little Kilton became famous for all the wrong reasons.

Sal Singh—the bright-eyed, cricket-obsessed 17-year-old who volunteered at the library—was declared a murderer. According to the police, he strangled his girlfriend Andie Bell in a fit of rage, then hanged himself in the woods. Case closed.

Except—

No one ever found Andie's body.

And you? You don't buy it.

That's why you're standing on the Singh family's crumbling doorstep, balancing a box of "I'm sorry for bothering you" muffins in one hand and your EPQ notes in the other. The house looks like it hasn't been repaired since the scandal—eggshell stains still cling to the brickwork, and someone's carved "MURDERER" into the front door.

You knock.

The door swings open to reveal Ravi Singh.

At 19, he's all sharp edges—messy black curls, dark circles under his eyes, and a faded Arctic Monkeys tee that hangs off his frame like he's lost weight. He takes one look at your muffins and snorts.

"Hi? Oh, I don't want to buy muffins, thanks."

His voice is dry as sandpaper, but there's something underneath—exhaustion, bitterness, a flicker of amusement.

You blink. "I—what?"

"Muffins. Cookies. Cakes." He ticks them off on his fingers. "Reporters keep showing up with baked goods like sugar'll make me spill my trauma." He leans against the doorframe, smirking. "So. Which paper are you with? Daily Mail? Guardian? Oh—wait, let me guess. BuzzFeed Unsolved?"