chapter one
'They say that genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains,' he remarked with a smile. 'It's a very bad definition, but it does apply to detective work.' ~ A Study in Scarlet
Odile was waiting for a letter, and that made history class nearly unbearable.
It didn't help that history was her absolute worst subject. Not that she could be blamed. After all, it was filled with useless knowledge and boring facts about old white men that killed other old white men. Besides, what use was it, learning about the past? No matter how many wars you memorized, you wouldn't be able to use that knowledge to aid your future. And so, in Odile's humble opinion, it was useless, and she would take her C- with her head held high.
Something hit her on the back of her head, and she frowned, reaching into the hood of her sweatshirt to pull out a small crumpled piece of paper. She craned her neck and saw Madelyn Simmons shaking her head wildly. "For Jason," she mouthed, pointing anxiously to the shaggy-haired kid nearly asleep right next to Odile.
Odile gave him a once-over, wrinkling her nose. Asleep, with a bit of gravy on his chin (so he liked the school's Mexican fries. Gross.), and ... was that snot? Ah, charming. She raised an eyebrow at Madelyn, but placed the piece of paper on his desk and flicked him on the forehead. Madelyn and her friends gasped dramatically, as if she had committed a felony. Jason woke with a start, blinking wildly. He noticed the paper, unfolded it, and glanced over the words. Madelyn squeaked. The teacher barely looked up from her erotica novel.
Jason shrugged and fell asleep again.
Odile held back laughter as she heard a strangled sound behind her, and someone whispering, "It's okay, it's okay. Maybe that chick's finger hurt his brain cells and he was temporarily confused?"
Odile turned around. "Impossible. Judging by the force of the flick, no brain cells would have been dislodged to the point where he would be unable to make conclusions about people sending him terrifying notes. He's probably just not into you."
Madelyn's eyes filled with tears. "But we went out last night!"
"And he lost interest. People can do that, did you know?" She twirled a lock of hair around her finger. "And be more careful about where you throw your pieces of paper. We don't want one hitting my head and hurting this chick's brain cells." She smiled innocently.
Farya Evans hissed, "Shut the fuck up, you freak."
She gave Farya a quick once-over. "I'm sorry."
Her eyes narrowed. "What? Are you really getting off your fucking high horse and apologizing? Wow, thanks, Your Highness."
"Oh, no. But your parents' recent divorce must be very difficult for you." Bags under your eyes indicate lack of sleep. All the names of band members that you wrote on your binder have been crossed off, signaling a dying interest in the topic of romance, likely out of sadness. Aaaand ... I heard a rumor.
Her jaw fell. "How did you ... what ... you little bitch...!"
Odile looked concerned. "We're here for you, Farya. We can get through this together."
The blonde's eyes turned to flames. "I hope you burn in hell."
"I'll meet you there."
The bell rang. Madelyn got up and ran out the room, her friends chasing after her, yelling condolences. Farya ran after them, throwing one last dirty look behind her.
Odile smiled.
The post office wasn't far from her house, and so she immediately got on the bus, heading for her house. She checked her phone: 2:54P.M. Hopefully, her mother had drunk herself into oblivion by now, so all Odile would have to do is get her into bed and make sure she took her pills. This was usually a challenge in itself, but she felt optimistic today. Partly because she was going to hear from her older sister, who she hadn't heard from in years, and partly because she had found something new to occupy her mind.
She dug into her bag, pulling out a sketchbook and a pen. She opened to a clean page and her pen hit the paper. Earlier that morning, the newspaper had arrived, and she had read about a very peculiar puzzle: Sixth Girl Missing. Suspected Kidnapping. Six girls, all with blonde hair and brown eyes, had recently gone missing. The first had been exciting enough, but the fact that there was a sixth only proved how difficult the case was.
Talking to the police wouldn't be the best course of action, evidently. After all, they wouldn't bother listening to some stubborn little girl, no matter how much knowledge she claimed she had, or how prestigious her father's position had been.
He had left her all his mystery novels, equipment (including a fantastic microscope, and a magnifying glass that was her prized position), and even some private notes on cases he had solved, including pictures of dead bodies (which she had glanced at with unspeakable delight). However, she couldn't claim that a will would be enough to give her any proper credentials. So she was on her own.
Statistically, she thought, the killer should be a male. In which case, rape or sexual assault are likely. He's probably looking for a very specific breed of girl, which explains the blonde hair and brown eyes. There was a girl in her math class, Emily Carlyle, who fit the profile. So perhaps she would have to keep a closer eye on her.
The bus rumbled along through the streets. In the back, a senior man yawned and shifted in his seat. A woman spoke in hushed whispers on the phone (domestic argument, Odile concluded. She's embarassed of the argument's topic, and she took her wedding ring off after the call ended). And Odile scribbled away any hints or clues that came to mind, facts that could help her solve the puzzle.
They exchanged tall buildings and bustling stores for white-picket-fence suburbia. Little kids outside, playing in the grass. Husbands and wives lounging on the front porch, sipping glasses of lemonade. Odile avoided looking at them. They were all so dull and ordinary.
Soon, even that faded behind them, and Odile found that she was the only one on the bus as the more run-down houses appeared: trailer parks, cigarettes strewn every which way, and cans of beer tossed on lawns of drying, yellow grass. The driver recoiled slightly as she made her way down the aisle and out the door, as if she would whip out a gun and mug him, like something on her mocha-brown skin branded her: THUG.
The young girl shouldered her bag and began walking to her house. There was barely anyone out at the moment, and she was grateful. She finally reached her house, breathing a sigh of relief when she found only one car in the driveway. Thank God her mother didn't have any "friends" over. She was hoping for some quiet.
She pulled out her keys and unlocked the door. It took some jimmying, but it creaked open, and she stepped inside, closing it behind her. "Mama?" she called. "I'm home." She didn't expect a reply, but said it every day, regardless. More habit than hopeless optimism.
As expected, her mother was in her bedroom. She was lying on the couch, her arms slung over the sides, a bottle of champagne barely in her hand. Their tiny house only had three rooms and two bathrooms: a kitchen, a living room, and one bedroom. Every single one of them stank of alcohol, save for the kitchen, which she always cleaned (bacteria in the kitchen, especially, would lead to an illness, which she could NOT afford right now).
Odile walked up to her mother, shaking her shoulder slightly. "Hey, wake up. Pill time."
Her mother barely stirred. She lifted her head, stringy brown hair falling in her face. She was wearing a dirty sundress, stained with ketchup and beer. "Odetteee?" She slurred.
"Odile," her daughter corrected. "Different eyes, remember?"
"You left us, Odette...!" Her mother's hand flailed, and Odile swore before diving out of the way, just as the bottle of champagne smashed where she had been standing two seconds ago. "Go...! Go on get out of here you fucking bitch!"
Odile pulled on her bangs. "Mama, it's me, Odile." She grabbed her flailing wrists and looked her in the eye. "Different build, different eyes, different everything! Damnit, use your BRAIN..." She narrowly avoided a punch. She had gotten used to her mother's stinging hands. She wasn't so lucky when she was younger.
"Odette! Odette, where is Odile? Give me back my Odile or I'll kill you! You can't take her too! You and your stupid father!"
"I'll only go if you take your medicine," Odile said quickly.
Her mom stopped struggling, and blinked at her with confused, lidded eyes. "Forever? You will leave me and my Odile alone forever and ever?"
"For eternity."
Her mother looked deep in thought. Finally, she nodded. "Okay."
Odile let out a breath and dug into her bag. She took out two of the tiny blue pills and a water bottle. "Here."
Her mom slipped them into her mouth with shaky hands, and guzzled some water. She sat, looking dazed.
After a quick check to ensure the medicine had been swallowed, Odile began picking up the spare bottles around the room, putting them into the garbage bag in the corner. She was pleased to find that the rest of the house had been untouched by alcohol since the day she had cleaned it. She felt a weight lift off her shoulders and straightened herself as she walked. Maybe this was a good omen! A sign!
Good luck was coming her way. She would find her letter, and her sister would be coming home, like she had promised! A smile spread her lips and she practically skipped out the door and to the post box.
Her fingers were shaking with anticipation, but she eventually managed to get the key in and unlock the box. She pulled out a thick stack of letters, and flipped through bills, coupons for pizza (which she pocketed), and advertisements. At last, her heart jumped when she found a small white envelope, labeled, Odette Adams, 52 Kuchen Boulevard, Kirsche, PA...
Odile grinned, tearing the letter open with relish. Finally, she would be able to get a break! Finally, her sister would be coming back for her, whisking her away from this hell. She wondered what school in Kirsche would be like: would the kids be nicer? Smarter? Hell, she didn't even care, as long as she had a chance to escape!
She unfolded the letter, eyes dancing over the words eagerly.
Dear Odile,
I haven't talked to you in years. This feels so weird. And it's also gonna be short, so sorry. I love you, Odile. I do. I recently moved in with my boyfriend! His name is Tim and he's a sweetheart and I am so in love with him it hurts. I know you think it's lame but try to be happy for me, okay? But Tim is ... well, he requires things. Expensive things. He's such a gentleman, and he loves me. But he also wants designer clothes and things, you know, and most of the money from work goes towards that. Tim doesn't have a job yet, you see, but he's trying! I'm going to pitch in some money and get him to university. And then we'll both get married and have kids, lots of kids. And you can come visit! But not too much. Tim said that he's really squeamish about blood and gore, and he finds you kinda creepy. No offense, but you sort of are. And I would probably still consider letting you come with us and live here, but we can't afford it! I'm sorry. All my money is going towards Tim. Love is the most important investment of all. And you'll realize that one day. Until then, please be careful and tell mom I say hi. I love you! In a few years, if you're slightly less freakish and a bit more normal (no offense!), you can stay with us and our kids. I'm naming the girl Cordelia Dion Natalia-
Odile ripped the piece of paper into multiple smaller, jagged clones. She tossed the shreddings into the puddle next to her and stomped on them. A person will die of blood loss in minutes if you sever the aorta or large pulmonary vessels. Her hands clenched into fists and she snarled at the torn letter, as if it was personally responsible for ruining her life. The jugular vein brings deoxygenated blood from the head back to the heart muscle.
Her ears were ringing and her head spun. One hand shot out and grabbed the post box to steady herself. She was so angry. SoangrysoupsetshewantedtocryshewantedtoDIE—
YEARS? She could barely survive minutes of having such a failure of a mother, of having to go to school and feel dead, of having to work every day and barely having time to solve her puzzles during the night, the one thing that kept her sane. She was sick of it. And the one person who had PROMISED to help her, who had looked her in the eyes four years ago and said, "I'm the good swan. You be as weird as ever and I will still come back and get you out of here," had now betrayed her for some loser boy who couldn't even work for his own pompous lifestyle!
I hope Tim breaks her heart, she thought viciously. I hope he makes her cry every night for years. I hope I'll be able to get out one day, and then Odette will come crawling to me and beg for forgiveness so I can turn her away.
She gulped down a sound that threatened to erupt out of her throat, and wiped at her eyes. Then she turned and ran.
She didn't know what to do after that. She ran for a long, long time. Or, at least, it felt like a long time. But she checked her phone when she got to the park, and realized that ten minutes was not a long time. And so she sat on the bench at the park and scribbled angry drawings and words into her sketchbook. She scribbled every fact she could think of, created puzzles and math equations, played tic tac toe with sticks, drew dragons and flowers dying and angry screaming girls with black eyes. She didn't want to go home.
It's not fair, she thought to herself bitterly. I've gotten this far without killing someone, right? Cut me some slack here.
'Slack' was not an option with a mother like hers. Jaleelah Adams required constant supervision, and Odile had been looking after her since she was eleven, when her father had died. That was around the time all of her friends had faded, not bothering to put in the energy to help someone who was sinking too fast. And then the alcohol came. And the multiple boyfriends. And Odette picked up and left, promising to come back and get her in a year. A year turned to three years turned to four turned to infinity. And Odile wondered if perhaps she was meant for this kind of life. That she was meant to live as a ghost, as a machine with too many pieces barely held together by rusting wire.
"Are you sad?"
The girl jerked up, eyes widening. She glanced over to her right, and found a little boy sitting on the bench beside her. He had shaggy blonde hair and was clutching a lollipop protectively. She recognized him as Joseph Carlyle, Emily's little brother.
"No."
"You look sad," he said, sticking the lollipop in his mouth. "You were crying."
"I wasn't. Where are your friends?" She pasted on a smile, trying to look as happy as possible.
"Don't got any."
"Oh. Your parents, then?"
The boy was silent. Then he shook his head. "Don't know."
"You're lost?"
"Yeah." He kicked his legs back and forth and stared at the gravel. "I'm gonna wait five minutes, then call the police!"
Odile shook her head, smiling slightly. "No need. I'll take you home."
"Whaaat? I don't know you! You're a stranger!" He leapt up from the bench and narrowed his eyes, as if taking a defensive stance.
"Not really. My name's Odile. I go to school with your big sister, Emily."
His eyes widened. "You know Emily...? Oh..." He glanced at his toes, frowning. "Okay. I'll go with you. But my daddy knows karate, so if you try to ... try to kidnap me, then I'll yell and he'll come and kick your butt!"
Odile nodded. "Deal."
Joseph was a chatty little boy, and Odile appreciated it. She had never liked talking or speaking, especially about her own life and hobbies, and making small talk. Even as a kid, all of her friends had been talkative and perky, as if she had picked them specifically to compensate for her introversion. The little boy skipped along and sucked his lollipop and talked merrily about his favorite toys and video games, all the embarrassing things Emily did, and that his father really loved toy trains, and had a secret train collection in the basement. Odile smiled and nodded and laughed when appropriate.
"And, you know, I'm gonna be an astronaut!"
"Oh, are you? That sounds cool."
"But I'm also gonna join the FBI and the NFL and the CBC!"
"...Okay. Wow. You'll be a busy man, huh?"
"Yeah, but I'm gonna marry a pretty girl and have over a gazillion kids!"
Odile shuddered. "I feel bad for your poor wife."
"Why?" He tilted his head to the side. "Girls like children! Why would she be sad?"
"Nevermind. That's a story for another day."
He gave her a suspicious look and shrugged. "Wait, didja say your name was ... Odile?"
She nodded. "Yeah."
Joseph looked confused. "Emily never mentioned you, though."
"Yeah. I'm ... quiet."
"Why? Be loud! Loud is good but quiet is boring!"
Odile shrugged. "Sometimes, quiet is okay."
"That makes no sense!" he giggled. "You're weird."
The brunette twitched. "Thanks."
They finally reached his house, and she was relieved. Joseph was nice, but he was also blunt and ... energetic. He also tried to stop their walk many times, eager to observe a particularly interesting blade of grass, or a pile of dog poop. She walked him to his front door, knocked, and waited.
There was no answer.
She tried again.
...
Silence.
Odile turned her head. "There's no car in the driveway. Are you sure they're home?"
Joseph paled. "Uh-oh."
"What?" Her eyebrows furrowed. "What?"
"My dad gave me a note but ... but I didn't read it!" He promptly burst into tears.
Huh? Panic settled into her stomach. "Wait, what? Where's the note? Do you have it with you?"
He nodded tearfully. "It's in my pocket but ... but his writing is so messy and you brought me here and walked and I made a mistake!"
Odile blinked. "Ah, Joseph, it's fine."
"No, it's no-o-o-ot!"
"Joseph, um..." She thought quickly. "My house is really near to this place."
He sniffed. "Really?"
"Yeah. I was coming here anyways."
"Oh." It was like he had sucked his tears back in. He straightened and nodded. "So it's good." He pulled out the slip of paper and handed it to her.
Odile wrinkled her nose (it was sticky with peanut butter) but unfolded it. Joseph hadn't been kidding. His father's handwriting looked like some odd blend of cursive and Russian letters. But – even if barely – it was English.
"'Go ... to ... Beverly's house'." She looked down at the boy. "Does that mean anything to you?"
Joseph's eyes lit up, and he nodded. "Beverly's our neighbor!"
"Is your sister there?"
"I think so."
"Your mom?"
"She's visiting gramma. And dad's at work! Oooh, I remember now! Beverly's gonna take care of us!" His voice dropped to a conspirational whisper. "She lets us watch the grown up shows with kissing!"
Odile coughed. "How ... nice. Want me to walk you there?"
"...Yeah." He looked down. "Unless you don't wanna. Then go home."
She shrugged. "It's not an issue."
"Good! Beverly's over there." He grabbed her hand and practically dragged her along the sidewalk. "She has a big car and three dogs! We only have a fish and he's kinda boring..."
"Mhm ... yeah, fish can be dull."
"Yeah! I want a cat, but Emily's allergic. She's allergic to everything. Did you know that if she eats tuna she will die?!"
Huh, really? That's useful information. This kid could be helpful! "Wow! That's, uh, very sad."
"Yeah." He shrugged. "But tuna is gross."
"True, true. Hey, how come your dad wants you guys at Beverly's house?"
"I dunno. He said he had work. But he told Emily he had a surprise for her."
"A surprise?" Why would he tell them two different things? More importantly, shouldn't Joseph know about the surprise? "What kind of surprise?"
"Maybe a car! She really wants expensive clothes. She came home crying last week because this girl was being mean to her since she didn't have a lot of good clothes."
Oh. Right. Emily was known for being the butt of many jokes. This was partly because she was extremely sensitive, and partly because she hung out with people that constantly bullied and tormented her, yet she stayed with them anyways. She has no backbone.
"He's probably working really, really hard! Do you think he'll get me a bike too?"
Before Odile could offer her personal analysis on the likelihood of Joseph receiving a bicycle from his father in the near future, he jumped up. "There's Beverly's house!"
"Oh, alright. Well, uh, have fun. Eat ... well. And, um, be nice to your sister."
He looked at her like she was crazy, but nodded. Then he charged forward and wrapped his stubby arms around her legs. At first, she panicked. Is he trying to kill me or something?! But then she realized it was simply an awkward hug, and she patted his head, silently hoping it would be over soon.
"Thank you, Odile!" he chirped. "Emily's making fudge for her class on Monday, so I'll tell her to give you two pieces."
"Uh, could you make it three?" she whispered, giving a charming smile.
"Sure! Bye!" He waved and skipped off. She waited until he had disappeared safely into the house before turning on her heel and beginning the long walk back to her house. She checked the time on her phone: 4:58 PM. She had time. She stuffed her hands in her pockets and walked along. When she passed Emily's house, she froze.
A black Honda was still in the driveway.
She knew that Emily's family only had two cars. If her mother had taken one to drive to her grandmother's house, then the other ... should have been gone as well, since her father was supposed to be at work.
Huh. Weird.
But she would have walked on and brushed it off as nothing but Joseph's incorrect knowledge, when she heard a strange noise.
It didn't sound like anything in particular. Not a banging or screaming or screeching. More like ... scratching. The wind picked up and she shivered, pulling her coat tighter around her. She tucked her collar up to cover her ears. Something in her stomach stirred. Check it out.
It's nothing. Just a tiny coincidence.
Oh, come on! Coincidences barely happen. There's a reason behind everything.
So?
And it's your job to find that reason.
It's my job to go home and make sure my mom doesn't choke on her own vomit.
Uh, no it's not. Besides, what'll you do when you get home, anyway? Go to sleep? Wake up? Go to school? This ... this could be an adventure.
But it probably won't be.
In which case, you'll go home, go to sleep, wake up, and go to school anyways. No difference.
...Fine. But if I die, I'll kill you.
Sure!
Odile inhaled deeply and walked along the path and up to the front door. She rang the doorbell and waited. She wasn't sure what she would find. Robbers? Murderers? The former would be boring, and the latter would be fantastic! But ... it could also be dangerous. Eh, fun came with a price.
After one minute, she sighed, tapping her foot impatiently. She rang the doorbell again, and waited two minutes. She turned the doorknob experimentally. To her utter surprise – and joy – it moved. She grinned, and the door swung open with a barely audible creak. Odile stepped in quickly, and shut it behind her. All of a sudden, the true extent of what she had just done hit her full force, and her stomach plummeted. I just broke into a house.
The gears in her head sprung to life, searching through information and words and numbers, and originally slowed when an excuse formed: I came to talk to Emily about English homework and heard a scream. They could easily brush it off as nothing but a teenager's mistake, as long as she didn't vandalize or steal anything.
The house was immaculately clean, to the point where Odile was afraid to breathe. Her boots clicked as she walked down the hall and into the living room. Still clean. For a family with two kids, their cleaning was impressive. Their furniture was quite fancy-looking, as well, from the suede couch to the embroidered pillows. There were multiple paintings hung on the walls, everything from landscapes to sketchy portraits to bowls of fruit. Odile observed the house carefully.
She picked up a card off the table. It was a business card, reading Josh Norton, Real Estate Agent. I'll sell your house in two weeks, guaranteed! She raised an eyebrow. How odd.
There it was again! That sound! Her heart picked up and she cleared her throat before calling out, experimentally, "Agent Odile Holmes, FBI! Is anyone in here?" Obviously, that was a lie. But—
"Please! Please, come down here!"
Odile's jaw dropped. What. The. Hell. The voice came from the basement, and she remembered what Joseph had told her.
"He told me was working on a secret train project in the basement!"
Trains didn't talk.
Without thinking, Odile threw the basement door open and took the steps two at a time. She wasn't sure what she was going to find. But someone was in here. Someone that didn't want to be in here. Emily's father had been working on a 'secret project' in the basement. And she had read enough mystery novels to know that that was never a good sign.
"Hello?" she called. "Who's in here?" She flicked on the lights and her eyes widened.
A young girl was sitting on the couch. Her hair was matted, and she was dressed in nothing but a tattered white nightdress. Her arms were covered with bruises and scratches and she observed Odile with terrified gray eyes. Her hands were tied behind her back, and there was another rope that tied her left ankle to a pillar.
"Uh, hi." Odile could feel her stomach turning with a mixture of excitement and nerves.
"Y-You're not FBI! Who are you?!" The girls shrunk into the corner of the couch. "No! No, leave me alone!"
"Hey, calm down. I'm an ... undercover agent."
"You expect me to believe you?! You look twelve!"
Twitch. "Look, calm down. Stop yelling. Stop ... feeling. Uh, just ... try to think logically. Who are you? What happened?"
She swallowed, playing with the ring on her finger as she stared at Odile. The basement was, like the rest of the house, well-done. It was a finished basement, with a large theatre system (that made Odile practically drool), and an intricate array of ceiling lights. There was even a mini-refrigerator right beside the couch.
But what really stood out were the paintings.
Emily's father is such a delightfully sick man, Odile thought happily. The paintings were all violent and gruesome, and appeared to come from unknown artists, as none of them were signed. One displayed a woman's naked torso, with the arms and legs cut off. The other was off a dancing boy who's head and feet danced in opposite directions, and who's arms were twisted at a crooked angle.
"My name ... is ... Eleanor."
"Real name?"
"...Eleanor!"
"Oh. Well, hello, Eleanor. Now, how did you get here? And these bruises ... who gave them to you?"
Eleanor shivered. "Please, please, let's just leave first! Please! What if they come back? Oh, god, they'll want to kill you, too. They'll kill both of us!" She began heaving, dry sobs making it almost impossible to distinguish her words. "Oh god oh god no no no—"
"Hey, get a hold of yourself." Odile sighed, working quickly to undo her bonds.
"C-Call the police! They'll come for me! For us!"
Odile bit her lips as she worked. She probably should call the police. After all, she was 5"1 and dreadfully skinny. Eleanor was tall and sporty-looking, but too scared to be of much use. If Mr. Carlyle had an accomplice, they would be screwed. But ... this was her biggest puzzle yet. She wanted to let it drag on a bit. And, more importantly, she wanted to know why and how the killers were working. That is, assuming Mr. Carlyle had killed those other girls as well. Considering the improbability of there being two criminals of such a severe degree in one town, she deduced they were the same. And that interested her. Mr. Carlyle had always been a kind, charming man. Why risk throwing away his perfect family and life? Why? She had to know why, or her mind wouldn't be able to stop racing. Selfish? Yeah. Insane? Definitely. Stupid? She liked to think it was smart. The police wouldn't give her information. So they were out. She had to do this on her own.
"My phone's dead," Odile said as the ropes around her hands fell away. Eleanor exhaled, rubbing her wrists with relief as Odile started on her feet.
"H-How did you find me?"
"Investigation, deductive reasoning, and boredom"
"Looklooklook please we have to go now! He's going to come here and kill us!"
"Do you know where he puts his dead bodies?"
"Huh?"
"The girls he's killed before. Cuts them up? Freezes them?" Her stomach jumped and she fought a smile. "Eats them?"
"I-I ... how the hell am I supposed to know?! I'm not some sicko!"
"Right." You're boring.
"He's a psycho! I want to leave now!"
"So why don't you?"
"He'll kill me! He's going to come back! I—"
From upstairs, there was a sudden crash, and both girls froze. Two voices. Screaming. Yelling. Odile's throat closed up. Oh. My. God.
She was in the same house with a murderer.
She had no protection.
She had a mystery ... and she could fucking die. Brutally. She could be tortured and killed. It was a possibility and, currently, likely. And although her heart sped up with fear, and part of her couldn't help but shake and worry (because, despite everything, she didn't want to die), part of her leaped up from a warm chair, eyes wide with delight.
Her lips spread into a grin. Bring it on.
She jumped to her feet, turning to the whimpering Eleanor. "Two?"
"What?"
"Hurry. Two men?"
"Y-Yeah."
"Buff?"
"O-One. Is buff. The other is ... kinda skinny."
"Alright. Look. I'm going to hide. In that cupboard. You need to hide under the couch. And give some indication that you're there. They have to know you're hiding there, so make some noise or something, okay? Then, you need to..."
She explained her plan quickly, hoping the two would allow her more time. They appeared to be in an argument of some sort, and their voices switched from loud to quiet multiple times. But she soon heard their yells gradually drop down to whispers, and they didn't rise again. The less emotional they get, the more rationally they'll be able to think. And then it'll only be a matter of time before they'll remember to check on their hostage.
"I ... I can't!" Eleanor squeaked, tears springing to her eyes. "I can't!"
"Look, don't be an idiot," Odile snapped. "Trust me. I'll do the attacking. I'm a trained professional. You just need to help me. I promise, I'll get you out of here. Promise."
She still looked extremely doubtful. When she opened her mouth to protest, Odile put her best lie forward.
"If it comes to it, I'll use my gun."
"A gun?" she breathed, her shoulders lifting a little. "You have a weapon?"
"What kind of cop do you think I am?"
She nodded, looking at her with a smidgen of confidence. "Okay ... okay..."
Odile sighed with relief. "Thank you." She huddled once more and disappeared into the cupboard, closing the doors over her. She heard shuffling and a muffled, "I'm under the couch," from Eleanor.
"Okay," she whispered back. "Now remember the plan."
The two waited. Odile couldn't explain the twisted adrenaline coursing through her veins. She thought of her mother, drunk and pathetic and at home. Those people at school that teased her once she didn't have the energy to paste on smiles and make useless small talk, that would be partying and drinking tonight. She grinned. Finally! She could put her skills and intellect to proper use. And she loved it. Despite the danger. Despite the fear.
It was so much fun.
Odile held her breath when she heard footsteps, gradually growing in volume and speed. They stopped, suddenly, and there was a gasp. "What the fuck?! Royce? Royce! Get over here! The bitch is gone!"
More footsteps. Another man – Royce – shrieked, "You've got to be fucking with me ... did she get out? Didn't you lock the door?! She was tied up, man, how the hell..."
"Don't blame me! She got out of the ropes! People don't just do that! Do you think the cops got in? Ah, fuck, man, we gotta get out of here. Shit, man...'
"Calm your tits, Greg. She—"
The man was cut off as loud, upbeat music started blasting from a cellphone.
One minute I'm in Central Park! Then I'm down on Delancey Street! From the Bow'ry—
Odile pressed the off button on her phone quickly, her heart pounding. Fuck. Fuck, mom, you had to call now!? You had to remember my number today?! Why did I pick such a loud ringtone?! I am going to die—
The door of the cupboard was thrown open, and she was exposed.
A large, muscular man (at least 6"3) with pale skin and a balding head was staring down at her. He looked completely and utterly shocked, his mouth flapping open and shut like a fish. Odile sat, rigid, for about two seconds before springing into action. She jumped up, wrapped her legs around his stomach, and pressed her thumbs to his eye sockets, pushing as hard as she could.
The man was screaming louder than she'd ever heard, shaking and writhing and twisting, trying to get her off of him. She fought to stay on, her legs straining. She didn't even stop when her thumbs touched something wet, and red leaked down his face.
In the struggle, she managed to yell, "Eleanor, take the other guy down!" He was wearing a ski mask, but he was small and scrawny. Eleanor was tall and athletic-looking. She might be able to handle him. Instead, there was a shuffling noise and Eleanor crawled out from under the bed, dodged the second man's grip, and was up the stairs in a matter of seconds, like a frightened dear. Odile nearly froze up. She ditched me? I can't take two of these guys ... damnit!
The man ran into the wall, slamming into it with force. It knocked the wind out of Odile, who crumpled off him and to the floor. She lay there, ankle throbbing and head spinning, desperately trying to breathe.
Her victim was on the floor, writhing in pain, clutching at his eyes. Blood seeped through his fingers, and she nearly felt bad. I did this ... eh, he was probably a murderer anyway.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck, man! I can't see!" His voice raised to a hysteric howl. "Kill her! Kill that fucking bitch! Kill her!" He was flailing, and he grabbed a hold of Odile's foot. She yelped as he pulled her. "Fuck you! I'm going to—"
Bang!
Royce stopped moving and the man with the ski mask tucked his gun away.
Odile panted, backing up against the wall. She couldn't look away from Royce's still, bleeding body. She had seen countless dead, mutilated bodies in photos and movies. She was able to stomach gore that most of her classmates felt sick just thinking about. But seeing a dead body in front of her, and knowing she had mutilated it (albeit in self defense) ... well, it was weird. She tried to edge her way to the stairs, but the Ski Mask Man shook his head. "Keep moving and I'll cut your tongue off."
Ouch. Odile lifted her hands. "Okay, okay. Sorry."
The man pulled his mask off. Odile couldn't help but be surprised. Sure, she had known who would be underneath it. But seeing it right in front of her – validating her hypothesis – was something new entirely. And it hit her that she didn't know what to do. At all.
Shit.
"M-Mr. Carlyle!" she croaked, clearing her throat. "You ... uh..."
"Killed all those women, yes." He smiled a sad-looking smile. "Odile, I'm very sorry. You know me. I'd have never done it if I didn't have to."
"Sorry doesn't do anything."
He laughed. "You're right! You're right. I just ... I don't know what else to say. Sorry can provide comfort!"
"Does Emily know?"
"Of course not. I killed those girls to protect her. To help her."
Greg Carlyle was a kind man. He ran an electronics shop downtown. People knew him and, generally, liked him. She couldn't fathom the fact that—well, actually, she could. The best psychopaths were the most charming and kind. But ... if he had a motive, then perhaps that made him more acting-out-of-love rather than a pure psychopath.
"Hmm ... well, why were you snooping? You do know you've ruined my entire plan, don't you?"
"Well, sorry. I was going to let that girl die, but..." She shrugged. "Miscalculation."
"Odile ... you've cost me a lot, you know. That girl's parents were going to pay the ransom."
Odile's eyes widened. Ransom. He wants money ... but ... why ... oh. She remembered reading an article a short while back, on how the economy was failing, and many shops in Gellbea that were being forced to close down. However, it seemed unlikely that it was something as simple as ransom. The glint in his eyes. The way he had shot his colleague so easily, and had barely batted an eye as Odile had blinded him. And the bruises on Eleanor, signaling prior torture...
"You're wrong."
He froze. "What?"
"It's not just the ransom. Sure, you want to keep your family afloat. And you want to buy Emily those clothes, too, right?"
"H-How did you—"
"But that's not all. All those girls you murdered had blonde hair and brown eyes." Her heart sped up as her lips spread into a wicked grin. "Were you going to kill your own daughter next?"
Mr. Carlyle looked at her as if he were seeing her for the first time. His eyes were wide and terrified, and he backed up against the wall. "How much do you know?!"
"Please. It's logic. Nothing more, nothing less. All of your victims looked similar, and they looked like your daughter. But why ... why would you kill her?" She couldn't help but feel almost calm. She knew that this man had the power to end her life. And she knew that she was virtually defenseless. But, oh God, wasn't this fun? She loved the interrogation, putting pieces of the puzzle together, the high, the adrenaline...
It was what she lived for.
He shook his head, looking down at his hands. "I couldn't help it ... the first girl, I swear, was just for the money! But I was stupid. Her family was poor. And she was clever. She nearly got away, so I killed her. But ... I loved it." He let out a bitter, hollow laugh. "I loved it! I loved the fear in her eyes! I loved being in control! I loved that I, a lowly shop-owner, had power over life and death. It was incredible!"
Odile nodded. He has a gun, so I'll have to disarm him before I make a run for it. Unless I jump out and surprise him ... maybe there's something I could grab to throw. Or a weapon? He's aware of the blinding trick, but...
"...and now, I know that I'm not alone."
She bit back a yelp as he leaned in, placing his arms around her. Immediately, she shivered in disgust, her her stomach twisting. Fuck off, you creepy bastard. She wished she had a knife; she wanted nothing more than to chop his filthy arms off at that moment.
"Odile, you looked at me, and you saw my true motives. And yet..." He stroked her hair, his voice dropping to a whisper. "And, yet, you didn't look at me with disgust. You looked at me like I was a human being. I know, Odile, that you understand me and what I do. You're just like me, aren't you?" His eyes shone. "You want to kill. To end life! To destroy it! To feel it run between your fingers and know – know – that you have the ultimate—"
"Nah."
He stopped in the middle of his monologue. "What?" he croaked.
"Killing is boring. I'd much rather solve the puzzle."
The man looked at her, blinking, lowering his arms from her, much to her relief. "I see," he mumbled, appearing dazed. "So you think it is ... wrong."
"You killed a bunch of teenage girls. Interesting? Yup. But if you think I'm into that kind of stuff, then you're not as smart as you make yourself out to be."
He nodded, swallowing hard.
"B-But that can change!"
Mr. Carlyle looked at her, eyebrow raised. "What do you mean?"
"You don't have to, uh, hurt me. I mean, maybe you could just threaten me not to tell or you'll kill my family or something? Oh! Or hold me for ransom! The other girls got ransoms, didn't they?"
He laughed lightly, shaking his head. "Your mother won't even notice you're gone, much less fork over a million dollars."
...Ouch.
"Well..." Without warning, she launched herself at him, bloodstained thumbs ready to blind another. But he was ready for her. He kicked her squarely in the stomach before her thumbs could make contact with his eyes, and she doubled over, wheezing. The killer grabbed her from around the waist and pulled her so that she had her back pressed to him. Her stomach hurt terribly, and she fought to breathe. She could barely think straight. She only heard a vague, "Sorry, love," and her heart sank. She kicked her legs wildly as a flash of silver danced in the corner of her vision, and her neck suddenly erupted with pain.
Pain. Searing pain, unlike anything she had ever felt before. It ripped across her throat, and buzzed through her body like electricity, making her want to cry out. Only she couldn't. Any sound she attempted to create only resulted in gurgling, with more blood sinking down her body, and it hit her, through all the chaos: He just slit my throat.
She fell on her side, body limp, spots dancing at the colour of her vision. She couldn't see anything. She couldn't feel anything. The pain was all that she could think about, all she could see, feel, hear, drowning out her every sense until the world was a roaring wave of red.
And then everything went black.
this was actually written as a dare. and, as such, it's my first OC in this fandom. i have some other stuff i've written for Fullmetal Alchemist, but none of it has been published yet.
i hope this doesn't turn out cliche or lame. it was surprisingly fun to write. but i'm also really busy all the time, so i apologize in advance if my updating schedule is shit.
also, the cover image is a piece of artwork by Agnes Cecile. i suggest you all check her works out. they're incredible.
enjoy.
