February 2nd, 2014:

As a forensic agent, the last situation I would expect to see myself in, is this one. The interrogation room is cold, but the glare of the detective before me gives me a chill that freezing air couldn’t match.

“This would go so much easier, if you could just be honest with me Miss. Bassett.” His voice gruff as he spoke.

“Did you or did you not fake the forensic evidence at your most recent site?” He had repeated the question multiple times since I was dragged in here, and I delivered him the same answer every time. However, detectives are persistent and won’t allow a single slip up.

“No. I am a professional, I retrieve evidence from a crime scene and deliver it to a lab, where I investigate and if I find interest in anything particular it is reported immediately.” I speak clearly, thinking about every word. I knew I had not tampered with my discoveries, but when you investigate a homicide site and the DNA reveals connections to the police chief’s wife, suspicions about your authenticity will linger.

The detective pins me with a frustrated stare, before pausing the voice machine that had been recording our conversation. He drags his palms down his face, an action I perceive as a reflection of stress, before standing free of his chair. No words are spoken as he makes a swift exit, I can hear him stomping down the hallway, the echo of his derby shoes slamming against the floor faded slowly in the distance. An officer of lower rank shows up shortly after, to dismiss my arrest due to lack of evidence.

When I exit the building, I avoid chief ward’s office, as not to cause any more trouble for the man who now battles accusations against his wife, but it’s just my luck that when I reach my car, he is a mere inch away unloading what seems to be camera equipment. I cringe internally at the awaiting awkwardness, but when I approach my car, what he does surprises me. It was unnaturally civil behaviour to show someone who had just torn apart your marriage. When he notices me approaching he shuffles out of my way and nods his head briefly before continuing to unpack his resources. As I pass, I can see his usually bright eyes are foggy, and a deep black hides the normally flickering grey. He looks particularly sleep deprived, his eyes sunken and rimmed in a ring of shadow. A wave of guilt crashes into me, not for the woman who had a connection to a brutal murder, but instead for the man who’s not only watching his police empire crumble beneath him, but for the faith he lost in his wife. I scramble with my keys and swing the door open, clambering inside. Tears well in my eyes as I fumble with the ignition, though i’m not sure why.

My car pulls out of the station, a faint squeak sounding off the wheels as I make a sharp right. As it does, a light rain begins to fall, the sky crying down on me, masking my own salty streams of emotion. The engine buzzes and I move along at a steady pace, untill I speed a corner and watch as a small animal, presumably a badger, darts across the street, nearly being flattened under my vehicle. My heart shudders as I slam on the breaks, coming to a sudden halt. As the car jolts unexpectedly the glove box to my right falls open at the movement, but when I reach in to push it shut again, an unfamiliar white shape catches my eye. I dig around, leaning in slowly to retrieve what had caught my attention and when I pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, confusion leaked over my face. A car neared behind me, headlights blaring bright, so I allow the sheet to fall as I pulled the car over. My break screeched as I swirved to the side of the street.

I once again reached for the paper, curious as to what it may be; But in this case, I had wished the curiosity inside of me hadn’t won.

I flatten the creases with my palm, and when I can distinguish writing, I conclude it is a letter.

A letter that is addressed to me.

However, I have never seen this before.

My stomach drops and i’m swallowed by a typhoon of worried thoughts. My hands trembled weakly as I read the lines of

cursive-threat. Over, and over again.

Reality hitting me with a sudden blow.

The letter read.

‘Poppy Basset, you may think you’ve won, you may believe this is a run of the mill victory for the forensic team. But oh, how wrong you are. I suggest you leave now Poppy, because if you don’t, I cannot guarantee your safety. In the end you never lied about your discovery. Yet you weren’t completely honest.

Games on, Basset.’

My chest heaves, and I suddenly feel incredibly nauseous. Realisation floods my thoughts, they know.

Whoever this is, they know, how do they know.

No, in fact. What do they know?

The question is unfortunately one that will have to go unanswered for the time being, but for now, I listen to the letter. My foot finding its way back to the gas pedal, and I send the car catapulting towards the highway.

‘They know’ Repeats in my head like a broken record. My hands grip the steering wheel, turning my knuckles white. I kept one secret, Revealed one too many, and now, a game of spun truth and deception trails me, but this time, the killer plans to strike first.

August 26th, 2022 (eight years later)

Summer was coming to an end, and it was made apparent by the hammering pour of rain that pounded against my patio. This was the forth house since leaving town that night, eight years ago. The only one THEY haven’t found.

The police have been on my tail since I took off after the interrogation, but they are not the follower that concerns me. I have received countless letters over the years, all marked in the same swirling handwriting, everyone of them ending in the same cruel line.

‘Games on, Bassett’ The words a constant reminder of what I had done.

Thankfully, the letters only ever arrived at the post office, never with my direct address written. Whether they didn’t know where I lived, or if it’s a simple way to taunt me, It didn’t matter. That wasn’t a gamble I was willing to take, so every time the letters came through, I picked up and planned my next move instantly. As much as the address never being listed reassured me my home wasn’t their target, It never eased the feeling I got leaving my house. So now I stare out onto a meadow of fluffy grass being soaked in the clouds sadness. planning the next plan B location.

Just in case.

Though this time, I was confident the ‘stalker’ would have a hard time finding me now, considering I am over 2000 miles away from the last home they discovered.

I’m pulled out of my ocean of thoughts when a familiar ring sounds behind me. The door.

I jump from the couch and lunge across the winding hall.

‘That poor postman, he must be getting soaked out there’ I thought, Untangling the chain lock and letting it hit the wall as it released with a muted click. The door handle is stiff as I throw the barrier between myself and the awful summers evening open. When I did, the world beneath me felt as though it would swallow me whole if I moved even the slightest. My mind running faster than I could catch it.

‘ It’s sunday, the postman doesn’t come on sundays’ Is the last thought I can comprehend before the milky grey eyes before me find themselves staring into my own.

Cheif ward.

The head of a gun now connects to my temple, cool metal making me shiver. The world crushing down on me slowly.

“H-How did you find me” I stumble over my words, terror peeling away at my sanity as I face what may be my last view.

“No matter for small talk, Poppy” venom laced his words, dripping from his mouth as he spoke my name. He seemed to wait for a response, but when he was met with silence, he offered me the confirmation I was chasing for years.

“Why did you frame Claire, Poppy” The mention of his wife’s name makes me feel sick. He spits the question at me, but doesn’t pause for an answer

“Why did you lock her up, when you knew it was me who did it.” He seethes.

That’s when my own truth became apparent, the truth I had denied for years, the truth I convinced myself wasn’t a part of me, and now I was forced to confront it head on. I allowed the confession to fall out of my mouth, but all the escaped was no more than a faint whisper.

“Because I loved you.” I watch his face contort into a furious frown, and he flashes me a look of disdain as if to mock my pathetic answer. My cheeks are slick, as droplets of heart break rain down heavier than the torrential downpour sounding behind my inevitable killer.

“Don’t you dare, You knew I loved Claire, and you did this, you put her behind bars because your twisted. This wasn’t an act of love!” He nears a shout as honesty slips from his lips

“Games over, Basset” He slurs, piercing me with his livid stare. They are the last words I can distinguish before the click of a trigger releases and an explosion not like any other rings in my head.

It appears, the game, really is over.