Day two, driving back to Briarwood. Today Evan would need to begin speaking with everyone involved in those three girls' lives. Parents, friends, neighbors, teachers, co-workers – everyone. It was now up to him to determine what exactly happened yesterday on that rooftop.

Being in Briarwood was different than being in Riverton. The busy streets and skyscrapers were missing. The ground was softer, the air was different. Was that even possible? He assumed with all the coal and fossil fuels burning in the city, a smog wouldn't be that surprising to conjure. And it was almost unfathomable to him that just over forty minutes north of the city was this small, suburban town of five thousand. So small that you could barely notice it on a map. So small that if you weren't looking, you might pass right by without giving it a second glance. Yet here he was, in this small town, investigating three deaths.

Evan had seen his fair share of crime and violence in Riverton. Not that it was overly violent or had extremely high crime rates, but it wasn't perfect – far from it. There were gangs, shootings, stabbings. Downtown was the worst. Domestic disputes, theft, arson. He'd seen it all, so he was prepared for the worst. The worst was what he specialized in.

Evan enjoyed working alone. Often times the officers and detectives were assigned partners. It made the job easier, gave you someone to lean on, always have your back. But as of late, Evan preferred working alone. Going out into the field, conducting interviews, surveying crime scenes. He felt that having someone else there wouldn't be the most beneficial. Another body to take into account. Another human being to worry about.

Perhaps this personal preference was due to the fact that he was slightly introverted and enjoyed his solitude. Perhaps he just wasn't that fond of working with other people. Or perhaps it was due to the fact that his last partner of two and a half years died on the job and he still wasn't completely healed from it yet.

It had been three years since the incident, but Evan was still haunted by it every single day. And since the death, Frank hadn't pushed for him to be reassigned a new partner. So for the past three years, it was just him, alone, doing what he did best.

Evan made it to Briarwood shortly after ten a.m. He slowed down once he got off the highway and simply took in his surroundings. Green everywhere, surrounded by trees. Quaint roads, quiet streets. Elderly couples sitting on their front porch, young mother's pushing strollers, dogs chasing each other in the park. In that moment, he could understand why the mayor had been so insistent that this was a suicide. She didn't want to ruin their perfect community they had formed here. Announcing a triple-murder would be driving a steak-knife right through the center of it all. And once something like that happened, there was no coming back from it.

He glanced at the GPS and veered the car over to the next street. First up on his list: the home of Haddie Taylor. Only child to Rene and George Taylor. Mother was a defence attorney, father was a cardiac surgeon. Now, they were childless. And all the money in the world couldn't make that better.

He pulled into the long driveway of a large, Victorian house, two stories, triple garage. The entrance was huge, two white pillars extending from the ground to the second floor. The lawn was well kept and the bushes were trimmed to perfection. Evan took in a deep breath, grabbed his notepad, and made his way to the front.

A woman answered the door, presumably Renée Taylor. She was either young or looked young for her age, he couldn't tell. She had short blonde hair that was cropped to her shoulders. Blue eyes, no makeup, dressed in all black. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying. She had a pleasant face, a face that people would enjoy looking at. He could see the resemblance from the photo of Haddie that he had in his car. Practically a spitting image of her mother. Same face, same eyes, same blonde hair.

"Mrs. Taylor?" Evan asked as she stood there with the door open.

"Yes."

"I'm Detective O'Riley," he stuck out his hand. She was hesitant at first, but eventually met his grasp and gave it a light shake.

"I've been expecting you," she said lightly. "Please, come in," she opened the door wider, allowing him to step inside.

She closed the door behind him and he surveyed the foyer. Impeccable.

"We can sit in the living room," she said to him as she turned to walk down the hallway.

"Shoes on or off?" he asked.

"Off," she didn't glance back.

Evan slipped off his shoes and followed her down the hallway and into the living room. She stood there for a moment, then gestured for him to take a seat on the couch. "Would you like anything to drink? Tea, coffee?"

"I'm alright, thank you."

She nodded then took a seat in the leather chair next to the fire place. The living room was magnificent. A glass coffee table sat in front of them, large portraits were hung on the wall, and all of the furniture looked like it cost more than his house. Evan tried not to ruin the aura simply with his presence.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," he started off. He said it with great sympathy and he meant it. He couldn't imagine the inconceivable loss of a child. Regardless of whether it was homicide or suicide – death was death. And nothing could make that better.

But then he began thinking: which scenario was worse? Murder or suicide? The notion that somebody ended your daughter's life, or the realization that she chose to do so herself?

Rene Taylor nodded solemnly. "Thank you. It's been –" She broke off.

"I can't imagine."

She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again.

"I guess we should begin with the basics," Evan removed his notepad from his pocket, clicked the pen. "What was Haddie like? Why don't you tell me a bit about her?"

Rene sniffled, holding a tissue to her nose. He watched as she closed her eyes, smiling to herself. The memory of her daughter, still alive in her mind. "She was," Rene began. "Extraordinary." She looked at Evan and met his eyes. "I know most parents probably say that about their children. But Haddie was different. She was so... smart. Gifted. She was incredible, intelligent, wise beyond her years. She was always so bright and optimistic – thinking about the future, her goals in life, what she wanted in this world."

Evan smiled as she spoke. He waited a moment in case she was going to continue, but she stopped there, getting lost in the memories. "And what was that, exactly? What did she want to do?"

Rene focused her attention back on Evan. "She wanted to become a lawyer, like me, but she wanted to be a prosecutor," Rene gave a slight laugh. "That was Haddie, for you. She set her goals and she worked towards them."

"And your relationship with her?" Evan asked. "Were the two of you close?"

"Of course," Rene said. "We've always been close. So many mother's and daughter's fight at this stage of their lives, but not my Haddie. We were the best of friends. She told me everything. We went on holidays together, just the two of us. We had a very special relationship."

"And what about your husband?" Evan looked around the room. "He's not here, is he?"

"Oh, no," Rene said. "He's out right now. It's been very... difficult for him. I'm just letting him be, giving him his space."

"What was their relationship like?"

"Fine. Normal. Obviously she wasn't as close with her father as she was with me. I mean, nothing compares to the relationship between a mother and daughter. But George and Haddie were close. They got along very well." She paused momentarily. "It wasn't easy for George. He always wanted a son. And after Haddie, well, we tried. I couldn't have any more children. But one was the perfect amount. That's more than I could have asked for. And George... don't get me wrong," she looked up quickly and met his eyes. "He loves her so much. More than anything in the world. But I think sometimes he envied our relationship. He wanted something like that. With a son, perhaps."

Evan nodded his head, focusing more on Rene and her voice rather than writing anything down. "What about friends? More specifically, Anya Wilson and Kiera Barnes?"

"The girls had been close for years. Growing up in Briarwood, everyone knows everyone. There are only two elementary schools, but the girls all went to St. Augustine's. They met in the sixth grade, I believe. They've been inseparable ever since."

"And they all got along well?"

"Yes, they were best friends."

"Do you know if they ever got into arguments? Disagreed about anything?"

"They're teenage girls, detective. I'm sure there was the catty drama here and there. But nothing severe. Not that I know of, at least. They did everything together. Sleepovers, birthday parties, shopping sprees, manicures, pedicures, puberty, the birds and the bees. They've been through it all, from graduating elementary school to starting high school."

"So as far as you can tell, their friendship was fine?"

"Yes."

"Did your daughter have any enemies, Mrs. Taylor? Anyone who might hold a grudge or want to hurt her?"

Rene shook her head. "No one. Everyone adored Haddie. She was always so pleasant and well-mannered," she choked. "I don't know why anyone would want to hurt her."

"What about family? Do you have many here in Briarwood?"

"My parents live here. George's are in England. We have some relatives out of town and such. Why?"

"Does everyone get along? Or is there any bad-blood between the family?"

She made a face. "No, nothing of that sorts. Everyone gets along fine. And they all love Haddie, if that's what you're wondering."

"So no grudges from friends or family. Who else did Haddie interact with? Teachers, neighbors, co-workers?"

"Well, yes. Practically everyone. But do I think any one of those people killed my daughter? How am I to know?"

"Did Haddie ever mention anything to you? That she was angry with someone, or perhaps scared?"

Rene thought for a moment. "Not that I can think of. And I'm sure she would have told me if she was. I would have done something about it."

Evan nodded his head and glanced down at his notepad. He looked back up and met Rene's eyes. "Did Haddie ever suffer from any mental illnesses? Depression, perhaps?"

"What?" Rene's face changed. "Heavens no. What are you insinuating?"

"I know this is difficult, Mrs. Taylor, and please, take everything I say with discretion. But this is a –" he paused. "Investigation. Into their deaths. And I need to know... could it have been suicide?"

Rene Taylor's face altered again. She was shocked. Appalled. "Of course it wasn't suicide," she said the word like it was poison in her mouth. "Haddie would never kill herself. Neither would Anya or Kiera. This isn't some Romeo and Juliet tale. The girls didn't one day decide to kill themselves together. Somebody did this to them," she looked him in his eyes. "Someone killed my baby."

_____

Next up were the Wilson's. The parents – John and Mary-Ella – divorced six years ago when Anya was ten. John Wilson remarried a secretary named Pamela. Mary-Ella Wilson lived on her own, sharing joint-custody of Anya and her two siblings, Jonah and Cloe.

Evan sat at the kitchen table, John and Pamela across from him. John, evidently distraught, staring off in a daze. Pamela, perplexed, deeply saddened, fiddling with the tissue box between her palms. Evan had already begun with his sympathies, which would become routine from that point on. He was waiting for John to respond to his question. What was Anya like?

"She was quiet," John finally spoke, looking down at the table. Pamela reached forward and placed her hand on his. "Always a good girl. Respectful of others. Meek."

"She didn't talk much as a kid," Pamela said. John nodded as if to corroborate. "She would just play peacefully with her dolls, as if the rest of the world didn't exist. The only thing that mattered was what she was doing in that present moment."

"And she was so kind," John said, choking on his words. He had to stop to gather himself.

"How did she handle the divorce?" Evan asked.

"Well, it was difficult for her," John said, regaining focus. "She was only ten. She was confused. Why are mommy and daddy splitting up?"

"She didn't want to have to choose," Pamela said. Evan knew by the way she spoke about Anya as a child that the affair between John and Pamela must have begun before the divorce.

"We have shared custody," John added. "But I think she preferred being with her mother."

"Well, she's a girl," Pamela gave a faint smile. "She needs her mother."

"What was her relationship with you like?" Evan said to Pamela.

"Good. We got along great. I think it was hard for her at first – having a new female figure in her life. But she adjusted well. Like I said, she was very quiet, so if she did ever have a problem with me, she never voiced it."

"But the two of you weren't close?"

"Not entirely. We did the usual things together. But most of her time spent here was either in her room or with her friends. Or with Cloe."

"How was her relationship with her siblings?"

"Great. I think being the middle child was good for Anya," John said. "Like she was invisible sometimes, could get away with anything. Before Anya, we were so focused on Cloe. Don't do this, don't do that. Trying to learn how to parent and shape Cloe into someone great. And then Anya came along and it's like we were experts, Mary-Ella and I. We had it all down pat: the diaper changing, the feedings, the storybooks and pre-school classes. She had it good," John paused. "And then when Jonah came along... well, Cloe was ten at that point. Anya was six and already so independent. I think perhaps we neglected the girls around that time. All of our attention was focused on Jonah, so the girls' kind of did their own thing. We spoiled them, just in order to please them and quiet them. Anything they asked for we'd simply give them so we could focus on Jonah. And as they grew up, they all got along so well. Cloe and Anya were close because they were together long before Jonah came along, and of course because they're girls. But despite that, they always included him in things. He was never forgotten about." John stopped and smiled at Evan. "We raised them well, detective. My kids all turned out great." Then his smile dropped, and the weight of Anya's death was back in the room, bringing with it great silence.

"She seemed like a good girl," Evan said. "But do you know if she ever fought with anyone? Had any enemies, maybe someone she was afraid of?"

They both stared at him, unsure of how to respond. "You're asking us who we think did this to them," John said.

"Essentially."

John brought his hand to his chin, let out a deep breath. "That's the part I don't know how to answer," he said. "Because this is Briarwood, for God's sake. We're not in the ghettos of Detroit here. We live in a safe town, everyone knows each other and gets along. So who would hurt Anya and her friends? Who would do something like this?"

"So she never mentioned anything out of the ordinary? Nothing to arouse suspicion?"

"Nothing at all," John said. "But then again, her mother would probably know more than I would. You're seeing Mary-Ella after this?"

"Yes."

"Good. Hopefully she can be of more assistance."

Evan nodded and formulated his next question in his mind. "Did Anya ever suffer from any mental illnesses?"

"No. No, of course not," John said.

"It's not a bad thing, Mr. Wilson. Many teenagers suffer from ailments such as depression, anxiety, eating disorders –"

"No, Anya was fine," he interjected. "She was always happy and care-free. Quiet, but happy."

"You keep saying she was quiet," Evan said. "Did you ever think that perhaps something was causing her silence?"

John looked at him. "No, Detective. Some kids are just like that. It's called being respectful and well-mannered."

"Apologies, sir, I didn't mean to offend you."

"Why are you asking if she had a mental illness?" Pamela asked. "You think she was suicidal?"

"It's definitely a possibility," Evan said. "We have to ask ourselves these questions in a time like this."

"You think my daughter and her friends killed themselves?" John snapped.

"It's still a possibility at this time –"

"No," John said. "No, Anya wouldn't do that. Anya wasn't sad or depressed or suicidal, or whatever the hell you're implying. And even if she was, how do you explain the other two? Haddie and Kiera? You think they were all suicidal and just decided to off themselves at the same time? Off the school roof, for Christ sakes?"

"Sir, please, if you'll let me finish –"

John put up his hand. "I understand you're doing your job. But right now, this, this... speculation of yours. Well, it's just uncalled for. I can tell you one thing for certain, and that is my daughter would never kill herself."

_____

House number three: Mary-Ella Wilson. Evan figured that perhaps the mother could prove more useful than the father. Evan sensed the unease and apprehension when talking about certain subject matter with John Wilson. For instance, the other two girls – Haddie and Kiera. Men don't pay attention to things like that, their daughter's friends, what they do for fun. No, that's a mother's job. And Evan was hoping that Mary-Ella Wilson could provide him with more information than her ex-husband.

Mary-Ella was a mess. Her short hair was crumpled to one side, as though she'd been lying on it for hours. Her eyes were red and glassy, evidence of the tears and dismay that had pained her for the past twenty-four hours. Cloe was at her side, aiding her mother in simple tasks, such as walking. She led her mother to the couch, one arm looped through hers. They sat together, staring at Evan, tissues bunched into a ball, clenched between fists.