A/N: Thank you all for your kind words! I hope you enjoy this next chapter; feel free to request pairings, too. If I can, I'll try to work them in.

Hope and Death

I called and told my older sister, Anya, who is off in college, what's been happening. She just said she remembers Alfred and hopes he is found soon. She also said that she's coming home to visit for Christmas. I'm glad, but I hope this situation gets sorted out before she gets here.

On Tuesday, things are much the same, except people are now saying that police found Alfred's footprints near the drop, but the prints doubled back towards Gilbert's house and disappeared once the ground got clearer and harder. So those Natural Theory guys - I suppose they aren't so right. I feel slightly bad for Gilbert's younger brother, Ludwig - he must be going through a lot, dealing with all these investigations near his house; watching his brother receive punishments for alcohol possession. Oh well. Isn't me.

Before the first bell rings Wednesday morning, I am opening my locker to empty my backpack and get my notebooks when something small and rectangular comes toppling out, nearly hitting me. I frown. It must have been leaning against the closed door, from the inside, I mean.

I pick it up and am confused at first. It's a phone - the screen is shattered. The case has a picture of the American flag on it. (You know, the one teachers make me pledge my allegiance to every morning, even though I would move back to Russia in less than a heartbeat?)

I hold it in my hand for a moment, until someone says, "Ivan, what have you done?" I do not know who said it, only that now everyone is staring, pointing, whispering.

Mathias, who has been standing nearby, reading a poster on the wall, stares at my hand. "Drop it," he whispers warningly, like I'm a dog. "Ivan, that's - Alfred's phone-"

These words register slowly, and Alfred's phone slips from my grip, falling to the floor with another cracking noise.

"What was that doing in your locker?" Mathias exclaims, eyes wide with horror.

"I don't know - it wasn't - I never put it there..." My mind is a whirl. I've certainly never used Alfred's phone, I can promise you. Much less taken it.

I hear someone say, "Ivan Braginsky murdered Alfred."

This is just the beginning, I know.

The beginning of the end.

It is terrible. Someone told the principal - of course - and I had to explain how Alfred's phone got in my locker. The only thing I said was, "I don't know," and while the principal looked skeptical, a few of the police officers must've believed me. They confiscated the phone. Fine. Fine. Whatever proves that I am innocent.

Anyway, while I'm not not a suspect, I'm not as high on their hit list as I thought I'd be.

But the rumors - oh, the rumors.

While some people are sticking with their original ideas (thanks), here are the newest theories of what has happened to Alfred:

1) I found a drunk Alfred at Gilbert's party and murdered him, hiding the body somewhere in the woods.

2) I kidnapped Alfred and he is somewhere far away.

3) I hired a hit-man to do away with everyone's favorite American.

Yet, if people would actually think - these do not track at all. The first theory cannot be correct because I was not at Gilbert's party. And while my logic has loopholes you could drive a car through, people should realize that three isn't possible because even if I did want Alfred dead, where would I be able to find and afford a hit-man?

Come on.

When I get to lunch, I am completely expecting the regular - smiling Ukrainian, lovesick Belarusian, dorky Baltic kids.

But there's no one there, not even Katyusha with her silly college application book. Just a piece of folded paper left in my usual seat. I pick it up and unfold it.

Sorry, Ivan. It doesn't look good to be associated with certain people.

No signature. Nothing else. I recognize Eduard's handwriting, but did the rest of the table write this together? I know I said I hate those people - and I do. I really do. But it kind of hurts to get this note right now. It's kind of insulting. Wouldn't they know that I would never do something like kill someone?

Go ahead. Say you see the irony in things. Maybe I shouldn't have made those jokes to Raivis the other day. Maybe there are lots of things I probably shouldn't have done.

Hey, here's an idea - how about you go list all those things while I go figure out how to prove that I'm not guilty of murder?

Oh. It isn't so fun now, is it?

My mother does not look happy.

"What is it?" I ask, setting down my stuff and closing the door. It started snowing about an hour before school got out, but it's not sticking to the ground.

"I got a call from your school, Ivan," she says, crossing her arms. "I heard all about Alfred Jones and the cell phone."

"I didn't do anything," I say automatically and truthfully. "It wasn't me. I don't know how it got in my locker. But it wasn't me."

She scowls. "Look me in the eyes and tell me you didn't lay a finger on that boy."

"I'm swear to God that I didn't kill or kidnap or injure Alfred Jones," I say, staring into her violet eyes. I got my eyes from my mother. I got everything, really - her light hair, her striking eyes, her ability to terrify nearly anyone. My father was, of course, very different - dark hair, brown eyes, kindly to a fault.

She nods, her mouth pressed into a thin line, and walks out of the room silently.

If my father were here, he would believe me.

If my father were here, he would never even think it was my fault.

But he died when I was fourteen, in a terrible car accident that wasn't his fault.

My heart goes out to Mr. and Mrs. Jones. I wonder if losing a kid is better or worse than losing a parent. This may be just me, but I would rather have a dead child than a missing child. When someone is missing, you always have that hope that they might still be out there, alive. Hope is exhausting.

It is better, I think, to be dead. To be dead and certain.