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“Do you have a boyfriend?” the student in the seat next to her asks suddenly, in the middle of talking about some idol drama or other. Yoru isn’t really paying attention, but it’s convenient to just nod politely once or twice and let the person talking at her continue with their mistaken assumption about her and her interest in what they have to say. Still, she almost misses the question altogether; she just happened to come to the end of a train of thought—namely, the case Kamiyama mentioned in passing yesterday—in time to hear her classmate’s words.
“No,” Yoru says, because she doesn’t. That’s all.
The student frowns though, glancing sidelong through the veil of her long hair. It reminds Yoru of a snake—not in a bad way—creeping through the long grass, stalking a mouse.
“I’ve seen you walking with that good-looking guy a lot,” she points out. “Is he your relative, then?”
It takes a moment for Yoru to figure out who the student is talking about, even though she doesn’t really spend time with anyone else. Good-looking? Kamiyama looks like Kamiyama; they’re bound by the blood of other people, if anything.
“He’s a high school classmate,” Yoru says, and turns a page in her notes. After a pause, the student lets out a disbelieving laugh, but Yoru doesn’t react, and she eventually leans over to talk to someone else in the next row of seats.
Yoru isn’t paying attention anyway. Her phone buzzes in her pocket; it might be Kamiyama, replying to the message where she sent him the link to a local article covering the string of disappearances. Maybe he’s found something on one of the forums, or a post from a message board. Yoru glances at the clock—still a few minutes before class begins—and pulls out her phone.
Itsuki is washing his dishes in the kitchen when his phone, left behind on the dining table, buzzes. From the sofa, his father—home for once—glances up before resuming his perusal of the financial section of the paper.
Itsuki dries his hands methodically on the towel before making his way over to check the screen. There’s an interesting series of disappearances; while they might be unrelated, it might be something after all.
“Your girlfriend?” his father asks, the comment unexpected. The newspaper rustles as he turns the page, humming over a financial think-piece.
“No,” Itsuki says, unperturbed. “I’m focusing on my studies.” His phone vibrates again, and he glances back down to read Morino’s response, only to be interrupted when his mother calls from the study.
“Please walk your sister to the bus stop.”
Itsuki doesn’t sigh, just gathers his things into his bag. He might as well leave too.
“Thanks, Oniichan,” his sister says, still chewing her last bite of toast as she loops her arms into the straps of her backpack. She’s in high school already, but still acts like a middle-schooler sometimes.
“I wish I had a friend like you have Morino-san,” she says longingly when Itsuki checks his phone while they’re waiting for the bus. He frowns, just a little. Friends?
“We just share some common interests,” he points out. “That doesn’t make us friends.”
Standing next to him, scuffing her heel on the sidewalk brick, his sister huffs.
“Fine, then I want to have someone to share interests in like Morino-san,” she says. Itsuki ignores her; the bus has just arrived, anyway.