It's amazing how something as simple as answering a phone call can alter someone's life. That was how Evie would look at it, once the madness had calmed a bit and she had time to lock herself in her hotel room for some peace and quiet.
That's how her life would be divided, you see. Before The Call and After The Call.
Before the call she was an Administrative Assistant for a Fortune 500 Company, poised to move up and take the management position she'd been wanting since she first started working there. She had a nice apartment in the city, a Great Dane named Fezzik, and even though her divorce had been finalized only last month, she felt sexy as hell.
After the call…well. She didn't know who she was anymore.
She answered the office phone, like she did a thousand times a day, with a cheery "Nickolas Gardner's office. How may I help you?"
The voice on the other end was British and very, very tired. "Hello. I'm looking for an Evelyn Leftwitch."
Fuck. If someone found her taking personal calls at work she'll never get promoted. "Who's calling?" she asks instead, pressing the phone between her shoulder and her ear.
"This is Detective Inspector Lestrade of New Scotland Yard."
Ok. That was new. "How may I help you, Detective Inspector?"
"Ms. Leftwitch, do you know a man named Richard Brook?"
She pauses, thinking. "No. Should I?"
"Well the funny thing is that he left your listed as his next of kin. Name, number, address, the whole works."
She shakes her head. "I'm sorry…I've never heard of him. I don't even know anyone in England. I can't imagine why he'd have me listed as a next of kin."
"Right. Well," the man pauses for a moment as if he were thinking of the next course of action. "Ms. Leftwitch…do you know a man named James Moriarty?"
The contents of her pen cup crash to the ground. "What's happened? Is he alright? Is he hurt?" She scrambles on the floor for the pens.
"How do you know him?"
"He's my brother. My twin. Is he alright?" Her head whips around, eyes on the lookout for anyone who might take advantage of the fact that she was losing her fucking shit.
He lets out a heavy breath. "How soon can you get to London?"
"I don't know! Tomorrow, maybe, if I can get a flight and my boss is in a good mood. Where's Jim? What's he even doing in England? He's supposed to be in California!"
"Ms. Leftwitch…as you sure you don't know anyone named Richard Brook?"
"Yes, I'm sure. I've never heard of him in my life! Why? What's he got to do with Jim?"
"If what you're telling me is true then Richard Brook doesn't exist. He never existed. He's…something your brother made up. And if you're brother made him up then was responsible for the deaths of a lot of people."
She feels faint. Sick. This is not happening. This is not happening. This is not happening.
"Was?"
"I'm very sorry, Ms. Leftwitch. But if this man is who you say he is, then your brother is dead."
She hates England.
It's supposed to be rainy. Dreary. Overcast. It's not supposed to be sunny and happy and warm. The people are supposed to be stuffy and standoff-ish. They're not supposed to smile at her and nod as she makes her way into the morgue at St. Bartholomew's, her stomach clenching in fear.
The morgue attendant warns her that he committed suicide by eating a bullet but it doesn't prepare her for what she sees. She tries to look at the body properly – "We need you to identify him." – but she can barely see through the tears. She's going to hurl. She knows it.
Someone guides her to a chair and presses a cup of lukewarm coffee into her hands. She sits there, half way around the world, and slowly comes to the realization that she's well and truly alone.
A man, grey haired and wearing a suit, walks in and sits down across from her. "Ms. Leftwitch?"
She raises her head. "Yes?"
"Detective Inspector Lestrade," he extends a hand. "I wish we were meeting under better circumstances."
She nods.
"I know this is probably a bad time, but I need you to come down to the Yard. There are a lot of questions that need answering."
"Right. Right. Of course. Whatever you need."
They stand together and he guides her through the halls, one hand in the crook of her elbow, until they reach his car. London whizzes by in a blur of faces and buildings. If she had one wish in the world it would be to see it burnt to ashes.
The officers at New Scotland Yard all stare at her. She doesn't know why, but she knows it can't be because of anything good. They put her in another room, with another chair, and another cup of coffee.
Detective Inspector Lestrade opens the door and two other people, a man and a woman, enter.
"This is Agent Donovan and Agent Anderson. They'll be listening in on our interview. Standard procedure. Right. Let's get started," he places a note pad on the table and takes out a pen. "Please state your full name for the record."
"Evelyn Marie Leftwitch."
"Marital status?" his pen flies across the paper.
"Divorced."
He looks up. "Maiden name?"
"Moriarty," she says, and she sees Agents Donovan and Anderson exchange a look.
"Date of birth?"
"October 21, 1975."
"And your relationship to James Moriarty also known as Richard Brook?"
She reaches out for her coffee, hands shaking, "Jim. We call him Jim. Called him Jim. He is – was – my twin."
"Do you have any guilty knowledge about any illegal activities James Moriarty may have been involved in?"
Her head snaps up quickly. "What? No! Why?"
"You don't seriously believe this?" Anderson throws out an arm in her general direction. "This is nothing more than Sherlock Holmes's last hurrah!"
"Who?"
"I'm sorry, Agent Anderson was just leaving."
"Sir, I'm sorry, but I'm with Anderson on this. You don't really believe this, do you?"
"I don't know, Donovan, that's why we're all here! Now out, both of you."
"Wait, no," Evie throws out a hand. "Who the hell is Sherlock Holmes?"
"She's good. She's very good," Anderson says. "Too good, if you get my meaning."
"You know you are really starting to piss me off," Evie says. "I don't do well when people piss me off."
"Anderson, Donovan, out. Go find out what Dimmock's dug up."
She watches them go, fists clenched, and for the first time since she'd gotten that fateful phone call she feels something besides sadness and numbness. She's angry. "Alright. Explain. Because I'm not following. I don't understand any of this. My brother committed suicide. He hurt no one but himself."
Lestrade sighs and places a file in front of her. "I wish that were true, but the deeper we dig, the deeper the rabbit hole goes," he watches her open the file and flip through the pages. "Your brother hurt a lot of people, killed a lot of people, and I believe he pushed a friend of mine to jump off the top of St. Bart's."
"Sherlock Holmes?"
"Yeah."
"My brother wasn't a killer. I mean, this," she gestures to the file, "this doesn't make sense. He'd never…oh. Oh." A look of sudden realization crosses her face. Cradling her head in her hands she lets out a sob. "Oh, God."
Lestrade's eyes grow bright and feverish. "What? What?"
She looks at him, heart in her stomach, and says "When we were little our parents divorced. Mom got remarried and we moved into a small white house he owned. He…he wasn't a good man, Detective Inspector. For years he…well. I didn't sleep alone at night. When we were sixteen Jim found out. I thought he would go mad with rage but…he didn't do anything. That summer my step-dad disappeared. We thought he'd skipped town. I was so happy…and the roses beneath the red oak tree bloomed so beautifully that year."
Talking a deep breath, Lestrade reaches out and lays his hand on top of hers. "Let's move on, shall we?"
"Yes. Thank you."
The interview had taken too much out of her, so much that she didn't think she had anything left to give, but as tired as she is she still goes to Jim's apartment. It had been rented under the name Richard Brook and, according to the good Inspector, had already been tossed for evidence.
But they didn't know Jim like she did.
She walks through the apartment, shoes crunching over broken glass, surveying the destruction that had been left in the wake of Jim's death. On the floor in the living room is a mass production print of a vase full of flowers. The glass is cracked and the frame is broken, but she recognizes it immediately.
In her head, she hears Jim's voice and feels the ghost touch of his fingers on her face. "My Steel Magnolia."
She smiles at the memory and picks up the print carefully. She removes the backing. Hidden there is an envelope with her name written in Jim's lovely, slanted script.
She pulls it out, turns around to walk to the kitchen, and finds herself staring down the barrel of a gun.