Turning my attention back to the screen on my left, I continue running a search on Kinsley’s family. I’m determined to learn as much about her past as I can. Jesse has brought me up to speed with his recollection of events, which has helped me paint a picture of her childhood, however I need to dive deeper into her parents; something about them is off.

If Kinsley’s dad – Warren — came home after making the arrest on Lance Harding and then disappeared before morning, Kinsley’s mum would have been the last person to see him. I need to find her statement to the police, lucky for me Jesse gave me Stanley’s contact details.

Dialling Stanley’s number he answers on the second ring, “Hello, Stanley speaking.”

“Stanley – My name is Tanner Hayes, Jesse gave me your contact details.”

“Yes, he did mention I may hear from you. How can I help?

I fill him in on my own personal findings, before asking him if he had any witness statements or reports from Warren’s disappearance.

“Thanks, Stanley,” I say, as an email pops up on my screen. “I’ve got it.”

“Just doing my job, Mr Hayes. Can I ask –”

I cut him off, “Please, just call me Tanner. I’ll be in touch if I need anything else.” I end the call, slamming my phone down onto the desk. The motherfucker ran a search on me. It’s the only explanation as to why he pulled the ‘Mr Hayes’ crap. I push back from my desk, needing to top up my glass of whisky before I read over this report.

My fist connects with the drywall, leaving another hole I’m going to need to patch. I need to get out of this house. Stretching my fingers out straight before curling them back into a fist, I hiss at the sting of my knuckles. It’s the third time in two days they have been split open. Today, the culprit was a pink scrunchie. Lana – the cleaner, must have found it somewhere in the bedroom and placed it on the bedside table.

Unable to sit around in this empty house any longer, I pick up my phone and dial the only number I know I can confide in.

“Been a minute,” Harley teases.

“I’ve had shit going on, you know what it’s like.”

Silence lingers between us, I can hear the rest of the boys in the background which tells me Harley and the others are at the shop.

“Can I swing by?” I ask, already knowing the answer. Harley is the type of person you don’t need to talk to everyday, or even every six months — shit it really has been a minute.

When he speaks again his tone is less comical, “You know you’re always welcome here, Chonk.” I nod in response, as if he can see me; end the call and make my way there.