The day began with Tyson waking up in a bush. He hoisted himself up, trying to remember what happened the night before. As he picked leaves out of his hair, he vaguely recalled the late night out at the bar. The thumping headache helped remind him. Wearily, he headed toward Jumping Beans looking for a cure. Snippets of song lyrics and drunken conversations rose to Tyson's awareness causing him to cuss himself for yet another night wasted. He looked down at his stomach and said a silent prayer to his liver, "thanks for not killing me yet."
Just around the corner form the coffee shop, Tyson ran into 3 cops, hustling with their cups and pastries. He put my head down and walked by them, listening intently. "All officers listen up, we have a probable suspect on the loose. Apartment B4 in the Pointe Place apartments is empty. The owner is our lead suspect at the moment."
Two hours later Tyson was still sitting at the table by the window, bewildered. After hearing his apartment called out on the police radio and the barista telling him the gossip about Mr. Evans he was frozen in fear and confusion. Deaths in Pointe Place certainty weren't uncommon. Drug overdoses, food poisoning, and even murders were a monthly occurrence. But for Tyson, hearing about a death and being suspected for causing one were two different things. Tyson sat there thinking of his lack of an alibi, shaking in his boots. Not being able to remember the night before, the night a man was killed, was an extremely unfortunate coincidence. How was he going to convince the police it wasn't him?
On his methodical walk to the apartment building, Tyson got an eery feeling of self distrust when he tried to force memories of the night before back to his head. Had his binge drinking finally gone too far? Had he actually killed Mr. Evans and not remembered it?
