THE DAY AFTER DEATH

The world didn’t pause.

It didn’t slow down or whisper condolences when my father died.

The next morning, the sun still rose. The birds still chirped. Neighbors still complained about power outages and bad Wi-Fi. But inside our house, silence screamed louder than anything else.

I woke up thinking it was a bad dream. That I’d imagined the blood, the body, the blank look in my father’s eyes. But reality doesn’t disappear just because you blink hard enough.

He was gone.

And all I had left were unanswered questions and a crime scene burned into my memory.

“Your Father Was a Good Man.”

The police had arrived late the night before. One of them—Detective Carter—was the first to speak to me properly.

Tall, stiff, and speaking like someone who watched too many detective shows, he said, “Your father was a good man, Henry. We’re going to do everything we can to find out what happened.”

I wanted to believe him.

But his eyes told me what his mouth wouldn’t: there were no leads. No witnesses. No clue where to start.

They called it a robbery gone wrong.

But nothing was stolen.

My father’s wallet? Still there. His watch? Still on his wrist. His laptop? Untouched.

That wasn’t a robbery.

That was a message.

And I was determined to read it.

Return to Normal (Kind Of)

Two days after the funeral, I was back at Hillridge High.

The counselor said I could take time off, but honestly, being at school was better than sitting in my room replaying that scene in my head. Besides, I needed distractions.

Or so I thought.

I stepped into the hallway, and people froze like I’d brought a ghost in with me. Some whispered. Others offered awkward pats on the back. A few even tried to act like nothing happened.

Then there was Marcus.

My best friend since grade 8. A walking machine of jokes, weird facts, and theories about aliens running the government.

He walked up to me with a carton of chocolate milk, handed it to me like a peace offering, and said, “So... I guess telling you your dad’s murder might be connected to a secret government experiment is off the table?”

I stared at him.

Then I laughed.

Laughed so hard I almost choked on the milk.

That’s why Marcus was my best friend. He didn’t treat me like glass. He treated me like Henry. The same sarcastic, nosey, dream-filled Henry Wilson who wanted to become a crime-solver.

I needed that.

My Mother’s Return

Mom flew back the morning after the funeral. She had to cut her trip short. When she walked into the house and saw the police tape still hanging like a curse across the hallway, she didn’t scream.

She cried silently.

And then she hugged me like she was trying to hold both of us together.

We didn’t talk much that night. She just sat beside me on the couch, holding my hand while the TV played a documentary we weren’t really watching.

But something changed after that.

The next morning, she looked at me and said, “You still want to be an investigator, don’t you?”

I nodded.

She smiled. It was tired but full of something I hadn’t seen in days—hope.

“Then let’s make it happen,” she said. “Your father had plans for you. But now it’s time for you to make your own.”

That’s when she told me she had been saving some money on the side, money that was supposed to be for a vacation house someday. She wanted to use it to help me get into a proper criminal justice program after school.

My heart felt like it had grown wings.

A New Beginning

That night, I applied to an early-entry criminology prep course. It was held on weekends by the local community college. Most of the students were older, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t there to fit in—I was there to learn.

The first class was on crime scene analysis.

The instructor, Professor Langston, was a retired detective with a voice like a gravel driveway and a beard that could store secrets.

“The difference between a mistake and a clue,” he said, pacing the room, “is that a good investigator never ignores either.”

I wrote it down.

Every. Single. Word.

The Case File

A week passed.

Then two.

And just as I started settling into my new routine—school, prep course, grief—something unexpected happened.

Detective Carter showed up at my house.

He handed my mom a sealed envelope and said, “The department has decided to open a special investigation unit to look into cold and unsolved cases.”

Mom raised an eyebrow. “And?”

He turned to me. “They’re inviting fresh eyes to review them. University interns, rookie officers... and select students from criminal justice prep programs.”

My eyes widened.

“You want me to help?” I asked.

He nodded. “Not officially. But the chief believes young minds can see things we’ve missed.”

Then he handed me a file.

It was labeled: CASE #0942 – JOHN WILSON HOMICIDE.

My father’s case.

The same case they’d buried as a robbery.

Carter’s eyes were steady. “The chief says: ‘Whoever helps crack this gets fast-tracked into the force after school.’”

I didn’t hear the rest of what he said.

Because my heart was already thudding with something stronger than grief.

Purpose.

To Be Continued...