I woke up before the alarm went off. It was early in the morning, around 6, and the weather outside was cold with fog everywhere. Slipping into my shoes, I made myself a cup of coffee and put on a thick brown coat, which was too warm for the inside but seemed more severe on the outside. With the hat doing more of the part of disguise, I walked along the street, my hands shoved inside my coat pockets, with the one in my pants holding a handkerchief and my cell phone. I left my gun in the room, as it had no work then. The visibility on the road was very low; not a single creature came across my weary eyes, and only a few distant sounds of walking and pedaling could be heard. After a brief walk of 3 minutes, I reached my destination; the house was the same as when I left it in the night, with the gate and windows yellow-tapped. I looked around to make sure nobody was there, and even if by chance there were, the fog had made my presence invisible. Through the side passage, I made my way to the back side of the house; the wall on either side was quite high, thus minimizing the chance of anyone coming in from there. I looked for the window, which I left open before leaving in the night, and found it in the same position. But when I got close to it, my fear found evidence to prove itself. There were finger marks around the frosty pane, as if someone had just touched them. Before I could find anything else, a series of sounds made me jump inside and take a spot right in the corner of the dark storeroom. A girl wearing a red jacket, paired with white trousers and a black cap, moved out quickly with a piece of paper in her hands. I, too, went sneakily behind her. She unlocked the back yard door and went through it. Luckily, last night the officer handed over the extra bunch of keys to the house to me too, and I carried them along. By then I knew who she was, but I was desperate to know why she came here and what was on that piece of paper in her hands. I had to know it. She went inside a black Chevrolet. I couldn't note the number because I had to hurry. I looked around and found a bicycle lying there, the same one I saw Trent using the other night. It was not the best option, yet I somehow had to manage to hide myself, which would not be possible if I were in some other vehicle. The speed of the car was slow due to fog, which helped me catch up with her. After driving for around a few hundred meters, she took a sharp right onto the 66s Highway. This gave me an idea of where she was headed. Not quite sure yet, I decided to take a shortcut otherwise I would easily have lost the chase. The highway headed to the neighboring city but had a side road that led to St. Crimpson Cemetery. The place where Mr. John was to be cremated I could now feel the cold piercing through my layers of clothing. The gloves didn't seem to be of any use. My fingers were almost frostbitten; a few more minutes in the zero-degree weather outside and nothing could prevent me from going into hypothermia. The route I took was introduced to me only by Mr. John. He once took me this way to visit his wife. at the cemetery. It was covered with trees, with the path being uneven and rocky. Most of the track was covered with snow, except for the big palm-sized prints, which indicated nobody came out here in the past few hours after the snowfall started. I tried to pedal harder as it was my only chance to get close to the case. or probably reach the end of it. The path led straight to one end of the cemetery wall. I stopped and carefully placed my bicycle in the bushes so no one could see it. The black car was visible around the next end. As I walked over with my eyes and ears at work, I saw the gate locked, and the walls too had a cover of snow, which made me look all around, trying to find a clue. At last I decided to move, slowly but quickly, toward the black car. At this time, I felt the need for my gun, which I left back in my room. Safe in the desk if the drawer There was no one inside. But I did notice a series of boot prints from the gate of the Chevrolet leading to the other side of the cemetery boundary. I followed them with my feet on my toes, so that no sound was made and there appeared to be no footprints that could be identified. The snow had made my work easier; otherwise, this would have led to some serious chasing. The footprints took a turn around the corner of the wall. The cemetery was not very long, as the great sea was not very far behind it. I could hear the sound of water splashing on the shore. I saw the prints stopping at the corner. As I reached it, I looked around to find something but only saw the vast shore stretching across the length of the waters. The cold wave started hitting harder, but a chill went down my spine when, the next moment, I heard a gun click behind me. Without a word being said, my hands went up in the air, and I turned around to see what I had not expected. Mary was there, standing in those white pants and red jacket. Her feet were shivering, but her hands seemed more fragile. I saw her still holding the piece of paper in her hands. Her eyes caught mine while doing so. "It's not what you think." "In that case, why don't you just handle me over it?" "So that you all just close the case easily." She was almost crying. "My dad didn't commit suicide." "Leave that to the police." "He was murdered." I didn't realise it, but I moved a step or two to console her, and she noticed it. "You step one inch closer, and I'm going to blow those brains off you." The police are shite.' I knew she was never going to do that, but my life was important to me, and secondly, I was too frozen to get into more trouble. "Alright, what do you want?" How could you say that it was not a suicide? She lowered her gun at last, and I took a sigh of relief. 'Follow me.' Her voice is still cracking. "Well, better hurry then." That was the most I could bear the cold. My courage had given up, so I decided to see what she had for me. We went into the car. I warmed my hands and body along the heater as she took the lane down ahead, which further led to the wide exposed shore. a couple of hours of driving before reaching the other end of the town. "My dad didn't commit suicide." This time better and bolder. "I am listening." She turned and looked at me as if she wanted to hug me but couldn't, not because she was driving but because we were too far from each other's reach. Knowing there was no way back, Yet, I too felt the need for that hug. "I missed you." "I know, you did." She said and then started with her explanation.