“Do you think that there can be a possibility Monica is framed up?” Monique asked, biting off the tip of her ball pen, sitting cross-legged in front of her laptop on her bed. Oliver was in his plaid pyjamas and his plain grey top, bringing a mug of brewed black coffee. He took a sip from it and grimaced, letting out his tongue as the hot temperature of the coffee scalded his tongue.
“Why do you think so?” he asked. He had been staying at Monique’s place for two weeks, and they had been looking for clues or places Monica might have been. He sat beside her, the bed dipping. He stared at the scrawled letters on Monique’s notepad. The way she wrote the words were neat and formal, as if she took typography class.
“Why would she send us the video? And in a different setting?” she replied back
