I yanked the nearest storage box for the millionth time, struggling to get it through the doorway. "Mum! These stupid boxes won't move!" I yelled, letting go of the box in defeat.

"Okay, honey. Take a break and come downstairs." I have never figured out how her voice can still reach me from so far away, but she never yells.

Still, I gladly left the box, quickly checking my phone before I went. I sighed. No messages.

I was supposed to take my new friend, Becca, home last night, but when I drove to the street she was supposedly waiting on, she wasn't there.

I left my room, doing a slight hop over the box jammed in my doorway. I ran down the narrow stairs, taking them two at a time. They creaked slightly as my feet came into contact with the ancient wood, that I wasn't so sure was safe. I finished the stairs with a jump, off the fourth step, landing in the box-filled kitchen.

My mum rolled her eyes, staring at me with her eyebrows raised. "I've told you not to do that!"

I grinned slightly. "Gets me down here faster."

She turned to the bench, a small smile creeping up her face. "Maybe, but I swear those stairs will collapse one day of you decide to jump on them, or, let your sister ride a 'home-made' sled down them. By the way, I'm still annoyed about that."

"Meh. She enjoyed it."

"She could have died, Essa!" Oh, boy. She just brought out the folded arms.

"Oh, stop being so dramatic. She was fine!" And now the angry glare.

"Katy is eight! She was sliding on some sticky-taped twigs down these massive rotting stairs!" Now I was just waiting for the smoke to come out of her ears.

"Okay. Three things. 1. They were long, neatly-cut, branches, she was sliding on. Not minuscule twigs. I'm not that irresponsible!" My mum looked at me with a 'really?' expression on her face. "2. Don't force me to babysit if you dislike my methods. 3. I thought we were over this?"

"True, we are. So, want some cake?" she asked.

"Okay, mum. You have asked me that question before. The answer hasn't, and never will, change. In case you have forgotten, the answer is, DUH!"

She laughed at that, cutting a generous slice of chocolate cake. "I thought you might have changed your mind. What if you didn't feel like cake?"

I grabbed a plate, scooping the piece of cake onto it and grabbing a fork. "I would never, ever, not feel like cake. Is that even possible?"

"Yes. Yes it is," my mother said.

"I say it's impossible, but I guess we will just have to agree to disagree."

She was about to reply when we heard the very old-fashioned doorbell ringing. "I'll get it," I said.

"'Kay. Probably dad."

I did a semi-skip-run thing to the door, the timber floorboards groaning under my feet. I pulled the rusted door handle down, then outwards, cringing as it squeaked, desperately in need for oiling.

To my surprise, it wasn't dad on the other side of the door. It was a very tall, very scary, and very real police officer, holding up a very real badge. "Are you Jessamine Carter?" he asked, poker face on. Like he didn't know who I was. Around here, everyone knew everyone. They especially knew the new folks around town.

My mum then came in the hallway behind me, and worry was written all over her face. "What is going on here?"

"Yes, I'm Jessamine." The fear was plain in my voice, and I could feel myself shaking.

"We need you down at the station for questioning about the murder of Becca Fields."