All of my friends are gone. Their ringing laughter has come to an abrupt stop, and it was only when I reached for the cream that I realize this.

But a different presence fills the gaps in their absence. I can sense this person, whoever they may be, has a sinister goal in mind, or a grave need. So I drag my preparations. I let myself take a few seconds longer go pull out the sugar, the macaroons, the tea cakes, all while the weight of this anonymous guest presses harder and harder against my ribcage. It was as if I were being stoned, a preemptive torture method by my own body before I was to face whomever sat at the head of the table.

When the tea tray is prepared, I smooth out my skirts and press down the stray baby hairs peeking from my ponytail. When my hands reach for the handles, it takes all of my balance to not trip on myself, to not let my anxiousness make a fool out of me. I turn the corner and pretend nothing is wrong.

“Tea is ready, everyone!”

As expected, my friends are nowhere to be seen. I feign shock, but ideas of where my friends could be, ideas of them harmed, entrapped, even dead, soften my features into something real.

The mysterious individual replacing them is a man. Tall, lanky, and shrouded by a long coat and the shadow of his hat, he does not show any identification. No badge or ID when he says,

“All of seven of your friends are suspects of the murder of the woman who first owned this house.”

No consolation, no preparation, no nothing. His voice, like smoke, spouting cold, hard facts. I place the tea tray down and settle myself in the chair across from him. The plush seat cushions me, but not my shock. The steam from the cups of tea snakes around us, shrinking our proximity.

“They all have motives, and they all have interacted with her either hours or minutes before the murder occurred.”

“That can’t be possible! You must have the wrong people!”

Counting with his fingers, he names each and every girl I’ve grown up with since high school. “Bonnie Clyde, Claire Cassidy, Lilliana Smith—“

“Okay, that is enough! I get it!” I sigh a long, impatient breath. Question after question falls onto my tongue, the words and letters mixing together into incomprehensible thoughts I am unable to utter. Once I do find something to ask, it is difficult to string along. “But you don’t—how do I know I can trust your word? How do I know you have no other task to do here?”

He crosses his arms tight around his chest, as if the question was a small arrow aimed too close to his heart. “Look, sweetie, I don’t have time for formalities as of now. I need to get you out of here.”

Before his hand can grab onto mine, I leap from my seat, grab the piping hot cups of tea, and pour it onto his lap. He hisses a loud, “Goddamn it! You bitch!”

I run and run and run. Panic, avoid, escape.

But only from the kitchen.

Because in the whirlwind of desperation, my head slams into a wall.