Deleted (An extract)

They think I'm crazy. It might be the fact that I sit on the roof all day, keeping watch over our house, in case he comes here again. Or it may be that I tell them who did it every Wednesday, the man they say is innocent. But I'm not crazy. I know who killed my sister.
She was seventeen and I was thirteen, Lauren always was the rebel, while I preferred a quiet life of staying in and reading, while she went out drinking with her friends in secret gang spots. She would nag me to try some brandy or vodka. "Go on Katya! Try it! It tastes good and you'll thank me for it later!" she'd say with a slur in her voice. I'd refuse profoundly, but Lauren would never give up, never stop the drinking.
Sometimes she was out all night, that’s what Mum and I thought that night, the night she died.
We awoke that morning and she was still gone as usual. I cleared away me and mum's pizza boxes from the night before and made a cup of sweet tea and a bowl of boring cornflakes while mum was showering. I was sat day dreaming about being a famous guitarist when I saw ruby red Polo with scratches on the sides near the doors roll down the cul-de-sac. Someone hopped out, a masculine lean figure with black jeans, hoodie, gloves and beanie. He dropped the keys to the Polo and they clattered to the pavement. He began to pound his black and white trainers along the ground, running towards the main road, I thought of following him but the thought disturbed my innocent mind. A flash of floppy blond hair pierced my eyes as he ran away from the Polo.
I stood up and strode to the door where I ran outside and up to the car, everything was disturbingly quiet. I bent down slowly and grasped the cold keys in my warm palm. I clasped them in my hand and clicked the unlock button with a firm calloused finger, the car made a clicking noise. I moved my hand steadily and slowly to the red handle of the door, unsure of what I may find inside of the faithful, bashed up car. I took a deep breath and pulled the door open, my eyes were closed. I opened them to see my sister, sleeping with her long red hair in her face and a tiny smile playing upon her lips, phone in lap. I shook her, nothing. I felt her pulse, nothing. No. My sister was not dead. But she was. A text bleeped on her battered phone from a Lloyd Fielder, blonde boy in the picture. All the text said was "I'm sorry." I turned as Mum ran down the drive as a lone tear ran down my cheek; Mum screamed a blood curdling scream. I looked down at the text, my evidence of my sister's murder, was gone. Deleted.
“MY BABY! NOOOO!” my mother screamed tragically. I grabbed her arm before she could try and do something she’d regret. I sat her down before I felt more tears come running down my cheeks. I took her inside and picked up the phone. I called 999 and waited for them to arrive. They’d make it okay. They had to. There was no one else who could or would. But if I explained the text, would they believe me without cold hard evidence? Of course not. I started shivering and Mum was no better, she was sat on the sofa hyperventilating and howling. We waited in howl interrupted silence for around seven minutes until the police car pulled right up near the house and a man knocked on the door. I got up and steadied myself before opening the door at the end of the hall.
“Good morning madam. Can we come in?” asked a kind policeman of about fifty. I nodded and let him and two others in to the lounge where I sat them down opposite to mother. I sat beside her and the questions began.
“Did she have any particular enemies? Ex’s? Boyfriend? What could be the motive?” they kept on coming and I was left little time to answer before another question left his mouth. I stuttered and sighed as I tried my best to give an answer. Then they asked for me to give it to them.
“When we found the body, the phone was in my sister’s lap. I picked it up and it buzzed and it was a text from a Lloyd Fielder and all it said was ‘I’m sorry’. In the picture on the phone he had blonde hair and blue eyes. He had the same hair as the man who ran away. He was about six foot and quite a muscular man. That’s all I know. I’m really sorry.” I ended before breaking down in tears as I quietly handed it over to him.