I felt like a stalker.

Okay, strike that. I was a stalker. There was probably no excuse for what I was doing, but at this point, I was running out of options. I couldn't afford to pussyfoot around with Archer. I was down to 20 days now. Sure, that probably seemed like a lot of time to other people, but to me, that wasn't barely enough time for me to do what I needed.

All I knew about Archer so far was that his father was in prison, his three little sister's father was dead, he had a desire to live like a hermit, and he took care of his family more than he took care of himself.

I couldn't even begin to understand what Archer had been through. Hell, I didn't even want to. It seemed so much more awful underneath the surface, and I wasn't so sure I could handle it. There was this large portion of my mind that was trying to convince myself that Archer's father was entirely the reason as to why he was the way he was. It would be a cop-out of the worst degree, but it seemed entirely reasonable.

I doubted I would have the best disposition in the world if my father had killed someone, so I couldn't exactly blame him. Even if it was going to create a tenfold of more problems, I had to know what was going on with him. How could I help him if I didn't even know what the problem was?

No, there was definitely something else going on that he wasn't too eager to admit. I felt awful, prying into his private life, what he obviously wanted to keep a secret, but right then, I couldn't exactly find any other way around it.

I set my cup of chamomile tea down on my desk and dropped into my computer chair with an exasperated sigh. I felt a bad about doing this, but what can I say? I was desperate.

I flipped open the lid of my Macbook Air (a 16th birthday present I hadn't really wanted) and waited impatiently for it to boot up. Once everything was up and running, I pulled up the internet and typed in Google.

After Google was loaded, I started gnawing on my lip while my fingers were poised above the keys. I wasn't so sure if I could do this. But I had to. I didn't have a choice, did I?

Blowing out another sigh, I quickly typed in the few words that would hopefully make this entire situation much more clearer.

Patrick St. Pierre, New York City

Hundreds of results popped up instantly, and I had no idea what to start with. If I went through each and every website, I'd be stuck here for hours. So after a moment of contemplation, I decided to just go with the first suggestion - what looked to be like an article from the New York Times.

My heart started pounding and my palms got sweaty as the article was pulled up, flashing brightly before my eyes. It looked like a typical article from a newspaper, but there was a rather disconcerting picture included that made me stop breathing for a second. Staring back at me from the computer screen was a man who looked very, very much like Archer. Or rather, Archer looked very, very much like the man in this picture.

The man had dark hair and dark eyes and looked normal enough, I guess, but there was something about him that instantly gave me the urge to go run and hide in my closet with the door locked. His facial features were hard and angular, which maybe looked a little harsh, but that wasn't it. It quickly became clear a moment later why this man looked so completely frightening. The problem was his eyes.

His eyes were pitch black and blank, like he didn't see anything and didn't receive anything in return, either. It was like I was looking into the eyes of pure, unadulterated evil.

I had to lean away from the desk for a few moments to get a grip on my composure. I didn't want to start hyperventilating just because I happened to look at a picture. When I finally managed to pull myself back to the desk to finally read the newspaper article, I wasn't so sure if I had the nerves to actually read the thing. Someone killing some one else wasn't exactly something I found to be particularly pleasant to think about.

But I forced myself to read the article, anyways.

August 9, Manhattan -

Two NYC police officers were called to an apartment complex in Manhattan on a report of domestic violence on August 3, 2005. A neighbor reported hearing shouting and screaming and later several rounds of gunshots. On arrival, the police discovered one of the worst crime scenes New York has ever seen in nearly twenty years.

The victim, Christopher Morales, 37, was found in the front room of the apartment with three bullet wounds to the chest and a severed jugular vein. According to the official autopsy reports, Morales died within minutes of the attack.

Upon further investigation, it was later revealed that the attacker is the ex-husband of Morales' wife, Patrick St. Pierre. According to Mrs. Morales, their family had been being harrassed by St. Pierre for several ongoing years, ignoring the restraining order set in place in early 2004. Christopher Morales had reportedly gone to police in attempts to have St. Pierre arrested for stalking, but nothing was done.

St. Pierre's fingerprints were later found on the kitchen knife used on Morales, and the police later made an arrest on August 8. St. Pierre was immediately sent to the Metropolitan Correctional Facility, where he will remain until trial, in December.

It is expected that St. Pierre will be convicted of first degree murder and will receive anywhere from twenty five years to life imprisonment.

A memorial service will be held for Christoper Morales at St. Patrick's Cathedral on August 10, at 11 pm. Morales is survived by his wife, Regina, their three unborn daughters, and his adopted son, Archer. In lieu of flowers, the family asks that donations be made to the New York City Police Department for exceptional services.

Tears were running fast and furiously down my cheeks once I finished the article, leaning away from the computer with my head in my hands.

I knew what I was going to discover wasn't going to be pleasant, but this was far worse than what I was expecting. I couldn't believe the fact that Archer's father had killed April, May, and June's father. Murder was a completely awful and horrific act that there wasn't any going back on.

And not only that, but April, May, and June weren't even born when their father died, either.

Even if I wasn't too particularly close to my father, I couldn't imagine him not being in my life.

I slammed my laptop shot with a disgusted shudder and jumped up from the chair to run and throw myself on to my bed. I didn't often cry that much, because it makes me feel like a weakling, but at the moment, I thought I had justified reason. So I just curled myself up underneath the pile of blankets on my bed and sobbed and sobbed my heart out.

My eyes were red and puffy by the time I finally managed to stop crying. I could have been crying fo hours and I most certainly wouldn't have cared. Hell, it was only a Monday and it was Thanksgiving break, so I was probably going to spend the rest of the day in bed.

I was dozing off a little while later, trying not to think of anything, when I heard a quiet little meow and felt something soft and furry nudging at my face.

I cracked open an eye and was met with the sight of my kitten, Rollo, staring at me with his big green eyes. I didn't often see Rollo very much, mostly because he liked to spend most of his time underneath my bed, but when I did, he normally liked to cuddle. I couldn't keep back a small smile as Rollo nudged his nose against my forehead and gave another little meow. I peeled back my blankets and Rollo promptly curled up against my side, purring softly.

Well, if I was home alone most of the time, at least I had a kitten, right?

When I woke up, dusk had fallen outside and I could hear the quiet pitter-pattering of rain against the side of the building. I was pretty sure I'd been asleep for a couple of hours, but I was perfectly fine with that. I dragged myself out of bed, trying not to disturb a still sleeping Rollo who was curled up on the blankets, and padded my way to the shower.

Showers were lovely, enough said.

I probably spent a good hour in the shower, just standing underneath the hot, pounding flow of the water, trying hard to forget everything that was currently running through my mind. I was more than stressed out about everything, and I wasn't so sure if I'd be able to handle the rest of these twenty days without going insane.

I wrapped myself up in a fluffy towel and flicked the bathroom light off after my shower, intent on pulling on my favorite pair of ducky pajamas on.

I was in the process of toweling my hair dry after putting on my pajamas when I caught sight of something on my bookcase that probably would clear up a few questions I had about this entire thing.

It was my fourth grade yearbook from P.S. 21.

I threw my towel on the ground and all but sprinted to the bookcase, dropping to my knees as I pulled the thin book out from between two Harry Potter novels. I flicked open the yearbook and skimmed through the pages till I hit the section that held all of the fourth grade classes.

My fourth grade teacher had been Mr. Roberts, a pretty weird guy with horn-rimmed glasses, and after looking through the class list, it was pretty clear that Archer had not been in my class in fourth grade.

I flicked over to the next page, to Mrs. Conwell's class, skimmed through the pictures of students, and almost let out a triumphant shout when I saw the picture that was clearly of a ten year old Archer.

His ten year old self actually looked rather happy, since he was smiling, and he looked very similiar to how he looked now, just younger, of course. But instead of the name Archer Morales being printed beneath his picture in the yearbook, it read Archer St. Pierre.

So that would be the reason why I hadn't know Archer and I had gone to school together since the second grade. The newspaper article had said that Chris Morales had been survived by his wife and adopted son, which, surprise surprise, was Archer. Archer's last name must've not been changed at least until he hit middle school or something.

This was more overwhelming than I thought it would be at first.

I sighed as I tucked the yearbook back into the bookcase and stood up, brushing back my damp hair. I could only imagine how interesting it was going to be when I saw Archer again. I wasn't scheduled to work at the coffee house until tomorrow, but it wasn't as if I could just go up to him and tell him that I knew what had happened, could I?

I immaturely stomped my way out of my room, slamming the door shut behind me, and made for the kitchen to make another cup of tea. I was tired, disgruntled, and I wanted to stop messing around wtih Archer. I was well aware of the fact that Archer wasn't going to budge so easily, but that didn't mean I had to be exactly pleased about it, did I?

Death was certainly asking a lot from me, there was no doubt about that one. I was really beginning to not like the guy.

"You're five minutes early. What's up with that?"

I gave Archer a withering look as I made my way behind the front counter at Mama Rosa's Coffee House. Archer was standing at attention by the register, leaning up against the wall with his arms crossed.

"I took an early train here, so sue me," I muttered, keeping my gaze fixed on my feet.

I wasn't so sure if I could even make eye contact with Archer and not blurt out that I knew what had happened to his step dad. I knew without a doubt that he wouldn't be very happy with me if he found that out.

I was a little surprised that Archer followed after me as I walked through the kitchen, towards the back where the coatrack was. That was definitely a first.

"What are you doing?" I asked, not looking back at him.

Archer didn't answer. Of course he didn't. He never answered anything, did he?

I slipped off my coat and hung it up on the coatrack along with my bag, and just about jumped a foot in the air when I turned around and came face-to-chest with Archer.

"What are you doing?" I repeated in a high-pitched voice.

Instead of answering, Archer caught me completely off guard by pushing me up against the nearest wall, putting both of his hands beside my face as he leaned towards me.

"You know, I expected better of you, Jamison," he said casually, his lips turned down in an inquisitive expression.

"What are you talking about?" I demanded with a squeak.

"You're really gonna go there? You're really going to act all nervous and afraid around me, like you're worried I'm going to suddenly murder you like my father?"

Okay, so there's probably no excuse for what I did next. You would've thought that I would slap him upside the head for a remark like that - when clearly it was absolutely ridiculous - but apparently my subconscious thought it would be a good idea to do something completely opposite of that.

So for some odd reason, I reached out and wrapped my arms around Archer and hugged him as tightly as possible.

I expected Archer to throw me to the ground or start yelling, but he didn't. He froze against me, his arms hanging limply at his sides.

"You're an asshole, you know," I mumbled into his chest. "I'd never do that to you. You don't deserve it."

Where the hell was this coming from?

It was hard to say if he laughed or grunted at the same time at my words.

"What are you doing, Hadley?" he asked, his voice sounding strained.

"Hugging you, duh," I answered, feeling my face burn red. "The least you could do is hug me back."

That time I'm fairly certain he snorted out a derisive laugh. But much to my surprise, Archer actually wrapped his arms around me, albeit a bit hesitantly, but he was still returning the hug.

Truth be told, I liked hugging Archer a lot more than I should have. He smelt really, really good - he had this smoky, minty sort of scent - he was really warm, and he was a tad bit more muscular than I'd pegged him for.

Embarrassing as it was to admit, I could've happily stayed there for a while, hugging Archer, but it was ludicrous to think that it was going to last for very long.

"Come on," he muttered after a few moments. "We have to get to work."

Well, he was right about that.

I gnawed on my lip as I awkwardly let him go, stumbling back a few steps into the wall. "Right. Uhm, you're right. Work. Right."

Archer rolled his pretty hazel eyes and gave me a look. "Get your act together, Jamison. I'd rather you not dump hot water all over me today, thanks."

"Oh, shut up!"

Things were clearly already back to normal, which I suppose wasn't too bad, right?

Oh, who was I kidding? I wanted at least something to happen between me and Archer, and I was stupid if I thought otherwise.

"Oh, and by the way? I've been ordered to invite you to Thanksgiving dinner with my family on Thursday."

I stopped dead in my tracks on my way out of the kitchen, Archer walking behind me.

Great. Just great.

This was just another thing I had to look forward to, wasn't it?

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Okay, I'm really sorry it took me so long to update!! I had a litte bit of writer's block with this chapter, but hopefully it's not too bad. It's kind of a filler, but it has important info in it, right? I hope you all enjoyed it!

So, what do you think? Comments, votes, and reads are always greatly appreciated! (: thanks!!