Claire Edwards sits in her favorite chair. It is a homey purple arm chair, placed near the fire. She sits here when she needs to think. Today especially. She shuts her eyes and tilts her head back. Her fingers tap the letter she holds in her hand. They trace the sticky edge that was torn as she ripped it open, feel the indents of the words hurriedly written in pen.

The note only has seven words.

"It wasn't me.

I love you.

-Eli."

She remembers watching as the police dragged him away. Eli did not scream. He didn't fight or kick. He just shook his head. "I'll take care of this. Don't worry." He'd left his favorite leather jacket at the table. "Check the pocket," he'd said. As she watched in horror and confusion, a single tear fell from Eli's eye and slid down his cheek. His hands bound by handcuffs, he couldn't wipe it away as he normally would have. His palms shook. He looked scared. But he only repeated, "Don't worry," adding, "Go home, Claire," as they shoved him out the door.

She had jumped to her feet, fallowing them outside, but one of the police men had waved her off. She could only watch helplessly from the window as Eli was confined to the police car with the lights flashing. She stood there, cold wind licking at her bare fingers until she walked slowly back into the restaurant, picking the letter, sealed away in an old envelope, from Eli's jacket pocket.

She remembers when Eli sat in his shiny black hearse, on the corner of Eighth and Lakehurst, his knuckles on the dash. He'd looked at her for a moment, then looked away and distantly murmured, "This is where I killed my girlfriend." Eli said this out of guilt. Not because it was true.

"We were in a fight," he had continued, "She was mad. She stormed off on her bike. Hit by a car. . I never said goodbye." He did not cry. His voice was just plain, dead. Guilty.

Lying.

Julie had not been hit by a car.

She had been murdered.

Claire shudders to think of how Eli lied to her. This was something he had never done. Kept things from her, yes. But lied, never. She doesn't jump to conclusions. He may have had a perfectly rational reason to shelter her from the truth. She thinks back to that night, sitting in the front seat. .

Why had he made such an effort to fabricate evidence?

She pictures that corner, the stark color of the sidewalk against the dying grass of winter. . What had really happened there? A picture of Julie, placed on Eli's desktop, reaches her mind. She pictures Eli's fingers, pulling a knot tight around Julie's pale wrists. She wonders how her subconscious allows her to picture this. Eli is a gentle person, caring, careful.

Was it all camouflage..?

The thought gives her a chill, and she pulls Eli's leather jacket around her shoulders. Claire shakes her head to clear it and gets to here feet. She stands up and opens the door, letting the fresh air clear her thoughts. There is a car parked outside. She lingers in the door way for a moment before stepping down the stairs and peering in the window of the silver convertible.

Sav Bhandari, king of Degrassi, sat perched in the front seat. He rolls the window down slowly, and smiles sadly at her. "I knew you'd want to see him," he says quietly, "Hop in."

"I didn't know you two were friends." Sav shakes his head.

"We've chilled a few times," he says offhandedly, "and Drew took me out there earlier." His eyes drop to the steering wheel and he murmurs, "Eli's a wreck. Reminds me of… someone I, uh, knew once. And I wanted to make sure you saw him." Claire remembers briefly the things she'd heard about Sav before, and decides he's out here to keep Eli from loosing his chance to work this out. He looks sort of sad, withered, compared to the Sav she'd known last year. His love was all gone, after the most infamous breakup with Onya. He'd always been a nice kid, considerate. She shrugs before thanking him softly and ducking into the passenger seat.

(Eli) I look upon the face of the girl that I love and wonder if she hates me.

She smiles as she speaks, presses her fingers to the glass that divides us, and I bring my fingers to meet hers, imaging her warm touch warming my cold one. Even so, I know she is uncomfortable.

"Eli," she says softly, "It's alright." She knows I've been crying, and she looks sad to see this, but I still await the question I know she'll ask.

"I didn't want to lie to you," I tell her in a low voice, "Claire, you know I lo-"

"Don't say it."