After giving me a pat on the back, Austin insisted that we should hand over Elle Jones' ashes to the police when his shift is done.

At around 12:30, Austin would wait for me near the parking lot, drive to the station, tell the cops everything they needed to know, and hand the jar over.

As soon as his plan is set to motion, Austin smiled, thinking that it was as simple as taking a candy from a baby. I wanted to smile back, but deep down, I thought his plan was complete BS.

If we did give the jar to the cops, Joseph might find out what I had done and ground me for the rest of my life. Besides, he wouldn't let me see Austin without imagining a gun in his hand.

But still, I felt bad stealing Elle Jones' ashes and I didn't want Warren losing his shit because of my stubbornness. So, I gave Austin a fake smile, hugged him goodbye, and watched him leave my bedroom.

Seconds after his reluctant departure, I rummage my desk drawer for a small cigarette and a lighter, then had the urge to smoke my feelings away.

Between my two index fingers, carried a white stick with a gruesome black scar on the end. My mouth gnawed at the orange tip of the cigarette, pondering over Elle's ceramic brown jar.

It stood idly on my white nightstand, allowing small dust particles growing on the cold surface. From the corner of the stand, is a tall, dark blue lamp producing a dim, yet blinding light that shined so brightly, that I was afraid the lightbulb would explode.

The glistening, white spot appears on the surface like a ketchup stain sitting on a table; it didn't budge or move a muscle; in fact, the light rested on the glass container's lid—inches away from Elle Jones' name etched across the jar.

The minute the fat smoke cloud escaped from my cracked lips, I glanced at my bedroom window, where the night casts an eerie dark shadow throughout New York.

Overwhelming sweeps of dark ink stretched over cars, buildings, and busy people.

Along with rolling dark clouds came raucous sounds of drunken laughter, excessive crying, obnoxious honking, and hateful words trading amongst one another like a text message blinking on a phone's screen.

With a heavy sigh, I thought to myself:

Oh, New York, what have you done?

You make us gawk at your escalating skyscrapers, swoon over your finest cuisines, and yell at your losing interest in crime.

At night, whenever I see New York's revealing its true colors, I can picture a disease more fatal than Ebola; it would come without warning, sending eerie chills down your fragile spine.

An epidemic so powerful that you find ghastly color overwhelming your skin tone.

It is called a shadow.

When I was eight-years-old, I was so afraid of the dark that I would ask Joseph seven times if I could sleep in the family bedroom, where he and Isadora slept.

It was ten times bigger than my ordinary room; the family room has a flat screen television, a nice air conditioner, and a bed big enough to satisfy the Queen of England.

I would beg Joseph constantly to invite me inside, but unfortunately, he would look down at me then said in a strict tone: "Jack, I don't have the time to be wiping your tears. So man the fuck up and go to your own bedroom."

Enraged, Isadora would yell at Joseph for hours, saying that he shouldn't swear in front of a child. Meanwhile, Jacob—who had just turned fourteen at the time—offered to sleep in my bed.

There, he could read me a bedtime story, share chocolate Hershey's kisses, and give me warm hugs. But sadly, Joseph the Dickhead threatens to ground Jacob for a month if he doesn't leave me to conquer my own fears.

Although I hated my dad, I didn't want to put my older brother in danger. So without complaining, I head back into my dark bedroom, covered myself in soft blankets, and pretended that the darkness doesn't exist.

Instead of black, I imagined the shadows were in different shades of blue. From a bluish purple to turquoise, my own aurora borealis comforted me through my night terrors.

As the colors skim through my hands, I continued watching them bouncing across my room until I fell asleep.

Now that I turned sixteen, I tried picturing the rich blue colors skulking my bedroom as I did before, but I could only stare above the dark ceiling, thinking about Isadora.

Her sleek blond hair is as shiny as her precious blue eyes and her face meant everything to Joseph: her happiness, her beautiful voice, and even her rosy cheeks.

Whenever I think about Isadora, I thought of a twenty-seven-year-old me smoking cigarettes, cursing at people, and drinking red wine in my minute apartment.

Taking in the putrid smells of smoke, I blew a small cloud into the air, then watched it floating above my head.

What would Isadora say if I did something terrible?

Normally, she would yell, scream, and ground me for God knows how many days. But in the end, Isadora would come into my room and give me one of her smoldering hugs.

I have never told anyone this, but there were times when I wonder if my mother had missed me over the years. Would she still smell like exotic perfumes and her favorite bottle of Chardonnay?

Does she still have that soft French accent Joseph had cherished over the years?

Does she even remember the words of my favorite lullaby, Frère Jacques?

Puffing another breath of smoke, I continued to study the intricate ceiling walls until I became too tired to put down my cigarette.

On the next morning, I wake up, brushed my teeth, and began changing out of my pajamas with a black tank top, dark blue sweater with a white polar bear on it, denim jean shorts, black knee-high socks, and clunky brown boots.

Then as I dug into my closet, I searched tirelessly for my gray woolen cap until I hear a drunk, aggravating voice calling my name.

"Jack!" it yelled loudly. "Hey, Jack!"

The voice traveled up to my ears, recoiling at every vowel it pronounces. Despite the unexpected noise, I instantly recognized this as one of my father's explosive episodes.

He sounded almost like a baby drinking a bottle of sleeping formula.

Despite his drunk and annoyed voice, I have decided to leave my mess as it should be then marched downstairs. My eyes traced the structure of the fragile, honey-colored stairs.

On the surface are thin lines of scratches, dust bunnies, and small, dead insects. Of all the years Joseph and I have lived in this fucked up apartment, we had never bothered to clean the staircase.

Whenever I came upstairs, I would cringe the sight of those weird markings then vowed to do something about it.

But then again, no one wants to do their chores on a weekend.

Sighing loudly, I wandered downstairs to find Joseph sliding his black belt through his black pant loops in the kitchen.

His dark eyes stared at his handiwork, as his pale lips squeezed together as if they had tasted something sour. And as of his hair, it appears to have been neatly combed and slicked back; it was kind of the way Elvis Presley does his before he goes onstage to perform.

In the meantime, his red t-shirt had looked like some sort of a wrinkled quilt; similar to tiny snowflakes showering on dying grass, small breadcrumbs, bits of sugar, and a sticky brown substance sprinkled all over the crimson fabric.

As his maple-colored men's shoes secured his large feet, Joseph takes a good look at his small, yet deadly Glock 13 tucked into his back pocket.

Although his lips couldn't show emotion, the expression on his face was calm; almost happy to go to work, until he noticed me walking up to him.

My eyes trained on Joseph's worn face as my agile feet approached him, threatened by his stern appearance.

Like a deer being terrorized by a lion, I simply stopped in my tracks, then take a slow walk towards the dirty kitchen cabinets, leaving an enormous space between Joseph and me.

Not surprised by my awkwardness, Joseph did a low grunt then said "Good Morning" to me.

Standing close to the cabinets, I gave him a mere nod.

"Morning, Joseph." I murmured.

After nodding in my direction, Joseph adjusted the hems of his red t-shirt, then searched his pockets for his police badge.

Just then, an awkward silence came into the kitchen like a fog swallowing up a forest.

I didn't know what the fuck Joseph wanted, or why he suddenly gives a shit about me, but I was too pissed off to be asking questions.

I wanted to get Elle Jones' jar to Austin so we can turn it to the police, go home, and pretend last night had never happened.

But when your dad is an ungrateful dick, there is a slim chance of me walking out the door without getting grounded.

"Look, Joseph," I snorted boredly. "I am in the middle of something, so can we call it a day?"

Joseph looked at me with surprise, feeling a bit shocked by my brutal honesty.

"You're in the middle of something?" he asked, repeating my words slowly. "Like what? Were you too busy calling your boyfriend?"

I roll my eyes.

"Nope, " I replied in a sarcastic tone. "I was too busy calling Isadora."

Grimacing at my brutal words, Joseph says in his usually strict tone: "Six years ago, I thought I have made myself perfectly clear that Isadora doesn't care about you."

Truth be told, Joseph was right. On the day she left, he made me and Jacob take out every photo, present, and memory of Isadora then shove it into a trash can.

If we didn't do what we were told, Joseph had threatened to kick us out of the apartment and live like vagabonds.

Crossing my arms, I gave him a scowling frown.

"And I thought I made it very clear that you're a shitty cook," I replied frankly. "but promises are a load of bull nowadays. Am I right?"

Joseph ignored me; his wrinkled fingers smoothed down his crumpled shirt, as he brushed off the creases growing on his black jeans.

Running his left fingers through his gray hair, Joseph said: "Jack, there's some shit I have to deal with at work."

"Why, is it a homicide?" I ask, intrigued.

Joseph shakes his head. "No, the crime actually happened last night after Elle's funeral."

My bored expression suddenly became alarmed. Traces of fear lingered in my eyes when my mind went back to the brown jar sitting comfortably in my black purse.

Deep down, I wanted to confess my crime to Joseph, but I was too afraid of what he might do to me.

So instead of telling my father, I pretended to be shocked.

"What?" I barked.

"I know, " agreed Joseph, dusting the breadcrumbs off his shirt.

"Around one a.m., Warren reported that his grandmother's ashes have been stolen."

Fuck.

"Does he know who did it?" I ask in a quiet tone.

Joseph shakes his head no.

"I don't think so, " he replied. "however, there were some fresh tire tracks on the grass, so my guys are trying to analyze them."

"What else?" I demanded.

"I don't think there is anything, " he implied. "Just tire tracks."

"Yeah, tire tracks which lead to Kristy's one-of-a-kind crimson SUV."  I thought to myself glumly.

Austin is not going to like this.

Retrieving his New York police badge, keys, and golden watch from the kitchen counter, Joseph examined my pale face but didn't question it.

"Anyway, I will be home around six o'clock," he states, "so if I were you, I'll get started on doing your homework."

"Oh, really?" I ask sarcastically. "Well, if I were you, I wouldn't stop fucking up my laundry with your disgusting table manners."

Giving me a blank smile, Joseph marched out of the apartment building then slammed the door behind him.

The loud bang came into my ears, like a deafening explosion.

My arms folded on top of one another as the fear of exposure never left my side.

Sooner or later, I knew that Joseph will find out about the jar in my room; he is also going to discover that I went to Elle's funeral without permission, ground me for a year, and never let me out of my sight.

Like that's going to happen, I thought bitterly.

Heading upstairs, I retrieved my purse, found my woolen gray cap from underneath the mound of my wrinkled clothes, put it on, and took it upon myself to return Elle's treasured ashes.

But then again, here in New York, a secret can never be kept a secret.

Not for long.