Author's note: This is me giving a second chance to something I wrote two years ago. Set in season 1.
Disclaimer: I don't own Teen Wolf. No financial gain is made from this. This is for entertainment purposes only.
"The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes."
Sherlock Holmes Quote
-The Hound of the Baskervilles
Chapter 3: "The Problem"
Ten seconds.
With narrowed eyes, I stalked my prey through what I considered my hunting ground.
Five steps.
I was close now, but she was too absorbed in her tribulations to notice me.
One quick movement.
I raised my hand and tapped innocently her shoulder.
She turned, surprised to see me there, so close.
I smiled pleased.
Four words.
"May I help you?"
The woman sighed. "Actually, yes. I was looking for a book a friend of mine recommended me. It's a romantic novel about a young woman who falls in love with a millionaire and… well… I don't know much about it because I haven't read it yet, but Christie said that-"
"I think I know what you want," I told her, deciding to end her rambling and stop her embarrassment. It was not the first woman in her forties I had found wandering lost around the bookshop's shelves. Indeed, they had turned a considerable part of our clientele since the publishing of that erotic novel.
The same novel I was holding now. "You are quite lucky. I have only two left."
She took it quickly from my hands, almost desperately. "I'll take it."
I saw her rush to my father, pay even faster, and exit the shop clutching the book in a way only someone who was committing something against the law would. I rolled my eyes.
"A sell is a sell and you know well that if those spicy novels keep the shop open, then so be it," my father admonished.
I leant against the counter, careful not to drop any of the numerous books which crowded it. "I know, but still sometimes I'd like to sell something that does not deal with stupidly handsome executives who like to play it rough or hormonal vampires."
"People don't buy books anymore. Not when they can get the same entertainment from a TV or a PC. We should be grateful of those bestselling novels that keep bringing food to our table."
My father's tirade was interrupted by the ringing of the bell hung over the door that announced the arrival of a client. Except it wasn't a client.
"Kenneth!" I yelled and ran to take the eleven different newspapers from his hands.
I left them behind the counter before the astonished eyes of my father and walked back to Kenneth, placing in his extended hand fifteen dollars. The plump old man took them with a satisfied smile. "See ya' tomorrow, Imogene."
Once again alone in the shop, my father dedicated me a skeptical look. It was the same ritual every morning. "Do you really need to buy all those newspapers?"
With a grunt, I took them from the floor and moved to the small room that served as an improvised office for my father – a quiet place where to calculate how much money we would owe the next month.
"A small detail can mean a vast deal when solving a crime," I answered. Instead of taking the desk, I sat on the floor and took the first newspaper, starting to read it from the last page, a habit I picked up since little.
My father chuckled while he observed me from the threshold, arms crossed. "But that's the thing, Imogene, you are not solving any crimes."
"That, we don't know yet," I insisted.
"I think we have already talked about this. This is Beacon Hills, small quiet Beacon Hills, not New Orleans or Detroit or New York nor any of those cities in your crime novels. So I think you should stop fantasizing about all that criminal stuff and start worrying about more important things."
I snorted. "Like what?"
"Like college." My father softened. "I know you are a smart girl, Imogene. I know you would do well in college."
"College is expensive."
"I know." My father took a deep breath, the same type one takes when one is about to do something painful. "That's why your mother and I have been thinking about selling the bookshop."
My eyes widened. "Are you serious?"
"Wouldn't you like to go to college? Leave Beacon Hills? Maybe study something about criminology and solve real cases. Or go to Law School like your mother did."
"But dad… the shop!" I exclaimed as if that was argument enough. "We have had the shop since forever. I grew up between these shelves and books."
The bell rang signaling a new possible and much needed sell. "And now it's time you build a new sanctuary where to keep growing up."
With a warm smile, he left me alone in the office. I stood motionless, staring at the newspapers scattered in front of me. But I hadn't time to reflect on what my father had said because my eyes landed on the words etched in bold black tint on the cover of 'Beacon Hills News'.
'BODY FOUND IN BEACON HILLS WOODS.'
Enough to catch my entire attention. I turned the newspaper I had in my hands. As expected, I was greeted by the same headline. I searched for the right page and my eyes scanned the article.
But I didn't get too far into my reading as the bell rang again and I looked up. To go or not to go? Any other day I would have left my father to deal with it, or even Mia, who I was sure was between 'Self-help' and 'Cooking' polishing her nails, but my father's words of the impending end of the bookstore were fresh in my mind and I considered that I owed it to the shop.
Newspapers could and would wait.
Stepping out of the office I found my father chatting with a blue-eyed man around his age in 'Biographies' and I passed them.
Mustering my best smile, brought to perfection by years of working in the shop, I approached the scrawny boy wandering through 'Sci-fi'.
"May I help you?"
"Umm, no!... Yes!" the boy exclaimed. He looked nervous, but I could not tell if it was just his nature or if he was actually agitated. I frowned. "Umm, I was looking for any book you have about… err," he dropped his voice and muttered, "werewolves."
I mimicked him and brought my head closer to his and whispered, "Werewolves?"
He nodded.
I nodded slowly. It was not the usual type of client that had those 'preferences' but I obliged.
"I think I have what you want," I smiled.
He smiled back and showed me two thumbs up. "Great!"
My fingers traced the spine of several books before I found what I looked for. I offered the book to him. "Here you are."
His wide eyes didn't betray his surprise and an eyebrow shot up. "Twilight?"
"It's a bestseller," I assured him.
He almost flushed. "Oh, no, no, no." He left the book on a shelf as fast as he could. "I didn't mean that type of werewolves."
I blinked, confused. "What type of werewolves did you mean?"
He sighted. "I want books about werewolves. The type of books that explain things about them." At my confused look, he added. "If they were to be real or something, I mean."
I pursued my lips in concentration. Finally, I raised a finger. "I think we have something."
He followed me through 'Mystery' to 'Fantasy'. There I started stuffing his arms with books, all of them of dubious credibility. He soon met 'The truth behind lycanthropy', 'Werewolves, the myth now and then' and 'The She-wolf: the real sex bomb' among others. He decided to keep 'Giants, Monsters & Dragons: An Encyclopedia of Folklore, Legend and Myth', 'White Wolf Woman & Other Native American Transformation Myths' and 'Myths of the Dog-Man'.
He followed me to the cashier.
"If you wait here a minute, I can bring you a book you might be interested in."
"Sure."
I left the fidgeting boy. He seemed to wish to be somewhere else. But what bugged me was that I had seen the boy before and I couldn't place where. Of course, that feeling disappeared when I went to the office to look for the promised book and the face of the same boy stared at me from the newspapers.
I crouched and inspected the photo that accompanied the article about the body found. Sheriff Stilinsky smiled after having spoken with the press; behind him, his son stood near a Jeep.
I joint said boy at the front of the shop. "Here it is."
I handed him the old book. It had been in my father's office for as long as I could remember and by the look of it, it must date back to 1800, at least. In golden archaic letters, it read 'bestiary'.
I saw the surprise in his face. "Well?"
"It's perfect."
"It's 100 dollars," I said. I wouldn't confess it, but I had truly no idea how much the book was worth. It hadn't even a price tag. But when I saw an opportunity, I took it. That I had learnt from my mother. My father was too kind and honorable.
"100 dollars!" the boy exclaimed.
"It's a very old and very unique book. There are not many out there… limited edition and all that…" He didn't look convinced. "Look, I'll make you a deal. You answer a few questions and the book is yours for 60 bucks."
He seized me, his eyes traveling to my own playful ones and the beautiful red cover of the book. "Okay, shoot."
I started summing the prices of 'White Wolf Woman & Other Native American Transformation Myths' and 'Myths of the Dog-Man' when he stopped me. "No, no, just the expensive one. I'm a student, for God's sake! I'll check the internet."
I shrugged. "So… What's your name?"
"Stiles."
"Stiles Stilinsky?"
He frowned. "Do I know you?"
"No, your face is familiar. You're the Sheriff's son, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"Wow, so I guess you'll know a lot about what goes on around Beacon Hills. Say, for instance, the finding of a body."
Stiles raised an eyebrow. He didn't seem too favorable to my subtlety. I might as well have put a sign over my head that read 'I'm trying to coax information out of you'.
"I can't really talk about anything of that. Sub Judice and all that."
My smile fell. "Oh, I understand." He handed me the money with a painful expression. "One more question," I said before he could leave, "why is the Sheriff's son so interested in lycanthropy?"
He faltered. "Um, you know, school stuff."
"School stuff?" I repeated, incredulous.
"Yeah… English paper about… how werewolves have changed in modern literature from their original counterparts." He allowed himself a smirk at the elaborated lie.
I didn't feel too convinced, though.
"From beasts to hormonal puppies?" he offered.
I laughed. "Couldn't agree more."
I saw him leave, eager to go back to my newspapers.
But fate had other plans for me.
"Wow, Mimi, I thought for a moment there that you were finally flirting," Mia said by my side, blowing occasionally on her recently painted nails. If you feel curious, this week's color was fluorescent green, or as the bottle named it 'Nightmare in the forest'. "Of course, then you went full C.I.A. interrogator mode on the poor boy."
"Well, you know," I said, "I am married to the books."
She chuckled. "I overheard your father. You know that excuse is not going to work forever and then…" she pointed a neon finger at me, "you and I are going to find you a boyfriend."
I finished writing down the sale in my father's accounts' book. "Sure." As probable as Stiles really writing a paper about werewolf literature, I added to myself.
"What reminds me of today!" she said cheerfully. I raised an eyebrow. "Today's party day!"
"Oh God no," I said and bailed to the office.
To my dismay, Mia followed me.
"It's a new school's year. You should take advantage of it and socialize."
"But I am not in school anymore," I reminded her. At her almost nineteen years old, Mia was still in High School. Her parents had asked my father to take her under his wing, arguing that I would be a good influence and their daughter could learn something from working between the same books she avoided like the plague.
"Doesn't matter!" she said, "Put on a nice dress and no one will care. Plus, you're not so old."
I snorted. "Thank you."
"Will you come?" she pouted.
I considered it. I truly did. I considered accompanying Mia to a place crowded with people I didn't know and end up alone after she ditched me for her new found love of her live – which was more of love of that night –, or staying home and try to make sense of Beacon Hills unresolved mysteries.
"No."
She went off in a huff.
I didn't care.
I knew Mia long enough to read her selfless efforts to get me to open up and leave the safety of the bookstore. I knew her parents would let her party all night if I were to go with her. With someone responsible to keep an eye on their black sheep. Now she would have to moan and complain for fifteen minutes before daddy got a headache and let her have her way.
I let out a contented sight. Now, back to Beacon Hills' murders and crimes.
With care, I cut out several articles I thought could be related to what I had titled as 'Stuff the police is too incompetent to notice'. Then, I glued them to my investigation notebook, which accompanied me since I was fifteen.
At one point, my father entered the small office, careful not to step on me, and began rummaging. I ignored him, trying to connect somehow the found body to my previous notes.
"Imogene, have you seen a red old book with golden letters on the cover?"
I smiled widely. "Yes, I have just sold it."
My father didn't meet my expectations of his bliss because I had sold that old piece of paper. In fact, he looked kind of alarmed.
"You sold it?"
My smile fell a bit. "I did."
He gulped. "To whom?"
"To Stiles Stilinsky."
My father frowned. "Is this a joke? That cannot even be a real name."
I rolled my eyes. "He is the Sheriff's son."
"The Sheriff's son? Why would the Sheriff's son want a book like that?"
I shrugged. "If you ask me, he is weird."
My father ran a hand through his graying hair. "You have to get it back."
"Get it back? What do you mean 'get it back'?"
"I mean 'get it back'. Make that boy return it, tell him there was a mistake, that the book was not on sale."
I closed the notebook and sat up. "Dad, he paid me 60 dollars for that book." There, maybe that would make him change his mind and act like the proud father I expected him to be.
Instead, his eyes bulged and his forehead wrinkled dramatically. "60 dollars," he muttered. "60 dollars," he said louder, as if convincing himself that he had heard correct and the heart attack was not worth it. "Get that book back," he finally told me.
"Why? Why is that book so important?" I asked; my curiosity was piqued.
"I already sold that book. For far more."
He then went back to the front of the store. Peeking at him from the office, I saw him talk with the man from before. I didn't recognize him. I didn't even think I had seen that man before.
This wouldn't be so surprising if it weren't because I kept tabs on practically everyone on Beacon Hills. You'll see, in my line of thought, until you are not proved innocent, you are a suspect.
Unfortunately, from my position, I couldn't hear a word they said. Maybe if I got closer…
I took a few books from my father's desk and walked out of the office, roaming the shelves closer to the desk and faking I was placing new books. So near, but still I couldn't hear them properly.
I felt as a spy as I moved closer; a very inexperienced spy.
My father shared this opinion.
He pointed at me. "And that girl over there pretending to work is my daughter Imogene."
I winced and waved sheepishly.
"I figure she doesn't remember me. It has been quite a time. I'm Chris Argent," the man introduced himself. I realized then that I did in fact remember him. His name was high in my list of suspicious people.
"Nice to meet you," I said politely.
"Imogene, weren't you leaving to run that errand I told you about?" my father interfered.
I was anxious to go over my notes about the Argent family and to get away from the scrutiny under Chris Argent's critic eyes, so I just nodded and smiled. "Sure, dad. Goodbye, Mr. Argent."
"Goodbye, Imogene," I heard Chris Argent's deep voice call back and I shuddered.
Crime novels have taught me that coincidence doesn't exist; life has proved them right.
I forgot everything about the red book as I got home and took one very special notebook. Before the 'Stuff the police is too incompetent to notice' notebook there was the 'Hale's fire' notebook. It marked the beginning of many years to come of monitoring life in Beacon Hills. And while the first one gathered information in general, the second one had a very clear purpose: discovering the truth behind the fire that killed a whole family over one night.
And in the spotlight, the Argent family.
As the first detective in literature created, Le Chevalier C. Auguste Dupin, defended, ratiocination is the key to solve a mystery. And while the police focused their efforts on searching for clues in a burnt down building where destruction reigned, I found my clues outside.
How much of a coincidence is that the Argent family moved away after the fire?
How much of a coincidence is that Kate Argent had a relationship with Derek Hale?
How much of a coincidence is that most of the Hale family was gathered in the house the time of the incident?
But without real proof the invisible lines drawn could not become more than nonsense from a crime novel fan. The return of the Argent family might be the only way of turning supposition into fact.
"Sweetheart," the high pitched voice of my mother snapped me back to reality, "I didn't know you were home. Did you close the shop early?"
She left her heavy designer bag over the kitchen counter.
I didn't look up from my notes. "Dad sent me to run errands."
"And do those errands involve the Hale family history?" she said picking up one of the notes scattered upon the kitchen's table.
"Maybe, we don't know yet."
She took off her earrings. Then would come the rest of the expensive jewelry, change the tailored skirt, blouse and jacket for comfy pants and a t-shirt, and take off the makeup she had spent half an hour applying. The high heels were already by the front door.
"How was your day, mom?"
"Well, you know, the same old. Susan's divorcing again, for the fifth time. Michael is again for another small robbery… the usual suspects." I laughed. "How was the day at the store?"
"Well, the same old. Moms buying erotica and chick lit, teenagers lusting after PMSing vampires and dad fretting over old books. By the way, do you know anything about an old red book?"
My mom opened the fridge, looking for something low-calorie. "A red book? Sorry, Mimi, you know I'm not the book type. That's your father."
I let the nickname pass. Since I was born my mother has made an effort to call me anything but my full name. I have been Ginny, Immy, Gen, Ima and now I was Mimi, which seemed to have stuck as a favorite. My parents have never told me directly, but I was certain my naming had been my father's doing.
"Chris Argent was today at the shop," I dropped casually.
My mother took a bite from her veggie sandwich. "I thought the Argents moved to New Orleans six years ago."
"Well, they're back."
"And?" she stressed.
"And a body was found dead. Cut in half."
"So you think it was the Argents," my mother concluded.
"Don't you think it's suspicious everywhere they go strange things happen? And not exactly the good strange type, but more the 'murder and arson' type."
My mother shrugged. "Everyone is innocent until proven guilty. There was an investigation when the Hale's fire and the police declared it an accident, an electrical malfunction."
"Police aren't infallible. They can be wrong sometimes."
"It happened six years ago, Mimi. It's a cold case."
"So you think it might have been arson too."
"I think it was a horrible incident and we shouldn't intrude in other people's sorrow," she sentenced and in a lighter note she added, "I'm going to have a relaxing salts bath. I swear Susan is giving me wrinkles."
I chuckled. Probably I wouldn't see my mother again until tomorrow afternoon. She had always been a busy woman, but it was her hard work what really supported economically my family. My mother's life revolved around the office, her computer, beauty treatments and designer clothes.
Twenty minutes later I heard the door open and my father arrive home. I ran to my bedroom. It was already dark and I didn't feel like dealing with my angry father. Tomorrow I would deal with Stiles Stilinsky and the mystery of the red book.
I closed my notebook and opened one of my favorite novels, where crimes were puzzles which the detectives had all the pieces for and criminals met justice at the hands of logic and reason.
Indecision took hold as I raised my hand to ring the bell of the Stilinsky residence. Mere seconds later, a man I recognized as the Sheriff opened the door.
"Hello, can I help you?"
I smiled the same smile I dedicated to my clients. "Good morning, sir. Is Stiles home?"
He seemed a little taken aback but called for his son. "Do you want to come inside?"
I shook my head. "Thanks sir, but I just need to ask Stiles for something. I have work in an hour."
Stiles came down the stairs a few seconds later. "Okay, I'll leave you now, I have also work to do. Have a nice day, Miss…"
"Imogene," I said and saw him cringe involuntary at my name as people usually did.
"Nice to meet you, Imogene," the Sheriff said before walking to his car.
"Nice to meet you too, sir," I replied.
"Hi," said Stiles. "Imogene? Were your parents drunk or something when they named you?"
"Your name is Stiles Stilinsky," I shot back. It didn't seem to bother him though. "Um… Do you still have that book I sold you yesterday?" He nodded. "Well, I need it back."
"What?"
"It turns out it wasn't on sale. I made a mistake and now I need it back." At his torn expression I added, "I will give you a refund."
"What if I want to keep the book?"
I hadn't considered this option. I mused about it. "I'll pay you for it."
"100 dollars and you answer my questions," he said meekly.
I gasped. "What?! You only paid 60 dollars for it!"
"Well, it's a very rare and old book. Limited edition." I could see he was enjoying this.
I growled. "Deal."
I took my wallet and handed him the money; his 60 dollars that I carried by means of refund and 40 of my own.
He smirked. "I'll be right back, feel free to wait inside."
I did as told and passed the threshold. When he left me alone I had a sudden revelation. I was in the Sheriff's house, where he surely kept confidential information about all his cases. Could I dare to take a peek at these documents? I thought, eyeing the semi open door that led to what I supposed was his office.
Could I? Yes.
Would I? I wasn't so sure.
I had never been the type to do risky adventurous things. My thing was more the observant-on-the-side kind of thing. I glanced at the stairs and tried to hear something. There was the sound of Stiles moving things, probably searching for the book.
My feet moved towards the office on their own and stopped in front of the door.
What if inside were the clues I needed to solve the mystery? Would I regret not giving it a shot?
Would I? Hercule Poirot would, Miss Marple would, William of Baskerville would, and Sherlock Holmes surely would.
With one last look at the stairs, I barged into the office. I felt the adrenaline rush to my ears and my hands grew frantic as they moved over papers and folders.
A note from the doctor about a missed check-up, a letter from a teacher warning Stiles' bad performance in school, several receipts… Nothing useful.
I opened the desk's first drawer and was met by the sight of a gun. I let out a shriek and closed it quickly. I decided I had caused racket enough to draw attention and to bail. But out of the corner of my eye, a familiar name. Hale.
I cursed inwardly and took the folder from the shelf. It was trapped between other two and it wouldn't come out. I heard steps approaching. Someone coming down the stairs.
I pulled harder, digging my short nails into it.
"Imogene?" I heard Stiles call my name.
With a grunt, I pulled it out and stuffed it into my bag.
The door to the office opened.
"Imogene?"
I turned, flustered. As expected, Stiles observed me from the threshold.
"What are you doing here?" He asked untrustingly.
"I-I was looking for the bathroom," I said softly.
He raised an eyebrow. "In my father's office?"
"I'm having some trouble finding it."
Stiles stared at me and I held my breath, but he finally said, "This way."
The bathroom was obviously shared by two men. The lack of beauty products testified it and it smelled strongly of man's cologne. Also, the toilet's lid and seat were up.
With a sense of danger, I put both down, sat upon it and took the folder and my cell phone out of my bag.
I didn't remember the sound my phone did every time I took a photo until I did the first one. I cringed and cursed. With trembling fingers I put it on silence and kept making photos of the whole dossier.
But there were too many pages and soon I heard Stiles at the other side.
"Imogene, are you alright?"
"Yes, yes! I'll be out in a minute!"
I flushed the toilet and kept shooting photos.
"Damn it!" I cursed when my phone informed me that it had met its full storage capacity.
"You sure you're alright?" Stiles asked.
Think quick, act faster. "Yes! It's just that I got my period!"
That shut him up effectively.
I erased a whole folder named 'miscellanea' and resumed my daring task. I turned the faucet on for some noise. It kept running for three whole minutes before I turned it off. Two minutes later I had already the whole dossier on my phone.
I put the folder on the magazine rack beside the toilet, not daring to look at what other magazines it contained, and walked out.
Stiles was waiting outside.
"Everything settled," I told him.
He nodded slowly. "I have the book."
He handed it to me and I headed to the front door, anxious to leave the Stilinsky household. But Stiles wasn't finished.
"Why do you want this book so badly?" he asked.
I remembered our deal and half-lied easily, "It's a family heirloom, apparently."
"Why does your family keep books about werewolves?"
"We have a bookstore. We keep books about everything," I explained.
As it happened in the store, one of us left with the red book, and the other was left skeptical. But now I had the book and I was dead set on examining it from front to back.
I erased the small blackboard clean once again. My mother had bought it to me when I was five and she had decided my vocation was to become a cute teacher. With it came a small pink desk that matched the blackboard. I had got rid of the desk long ago but kept the board.
"Okay, let's go over this once again," I said to myself.
At the top right, I wrote down 'Dead girl'. I had little information about it; what I had fished from the press. Only half of the body had been found, it belonged to a woman, age between fifteen and forty and it was found in the woods. Until I knew who she was, it was a dead-end.
At the top left, I wrote down 'Argent family'. I had more information about them. They had lived in Beacon Hills for a little more than a year. They left after the fire incident. Their main connection to the Hales was through Kate Argent, who had been seen with Derek Hale (Mia proved useful when it came to gossip). They wanted the red book.
What brought me to the next point. In the middle down I wrote 'Werewolves'. This one was more of a stretch, but I was willing to bite the bait. Over the past two days, the study of the book had occupied my every moment. I had been reading, translating and researching. And despite of it, I still couldn't pinpoint the relation with the other elements of this riddle.
In the middle of it all, I wrote 'Hale's fire'. The beginning of it all. And I was sure it was what connected it all. The documents I 'borrowed' from Sheriff Stilinsky were the only advance I have done and the only line of investigation open. By the Sheriff's notes, it seemed I was not the only one who believed the fire was started deliberately. The report explained how the fire could have started by an electrical failure. I skipped the technicalities and focused on the bit of new information.
I had the belief the only survivors from the fire left Beacon Hills. I was wrong. Peter Hale was currently admitted in Beacon Hills' hospital.
I stared at the blackboard. If I was to be sincere, there was one point missing. My family, the Wise family. Yes, as you can imagine, I was picked on a lot because of my full name. But that was not the point. Why did my father treasure a book dated from 1841 about werewolves, written both in old English and Latin?
Of course, the book had become a tricky matter. I had told my father that I hadn't found Stiles when I went to his house, and that I would try again sometime this week. He had grumbled and mumbled, but relented.
I made a mental note of my line of investigation.
First stop, Beacon Hills hospital.
I didn't like hospitals.
No, it wasn't because of the smell. Actually, I liked the smell.
It was because they reminded me why I never got to spent my childhood and teenager years out of the bookshop. Somehow, I had always managed to get into the hospital when I left the comfort of the store.
When I was six, my mother had taken me to ballet classes; it had resulted in a sprained ankle and the end of my dancing career.
When I was seven, I decided basketball was an interesting sport; I had ended up with a broken arm and a fear of round objects being thrown at me.
At eleven, my mother had wanted to impress some of her posh friends and we had all gone to a club to horse-ride; which concluded when I fell from 'Snowy Princess' and broke my leg.
At fourteen, in a school trip, I discovered I was allergic to bees' sting.
When I was sixteen, I paid the doctor a visit after hitting my head when I fell down the stairs of my own house. Five stitches on my knee.
So now you get an idea why I didn't feel too happy to be back.
Coming near the front desk, I realized I might not be let in to visit Peter Hale. So I decided to lie from the beginning to assure me passage.
"Hi," I smiled at the woman behind the counter. "I'm here to visit my uncle, Peter Hale."
"Sure. What's your name, sweetie?"
"Laura Hale," I lied. "I just came back from Seattle."
The woman typed something in her computer, though I got the impression that it was just for show and she let me in.
Peter Hale's room was just as the rest of the hospital rooms; devoid of decoration and simple, with a bed and little more furniture.
"Peter?" I called. The lights were off so I could only see his silhouette. I looked behind me. The nurse had left. "Peter Hale?"
No response.
I took a step. "I'm Imogene Wise. I just wanted to talk with you."
No response.
"Is it fine if I come in?"
No response. My pulse quickened.
"I'm coming in," I announced.
I was met by silence, only interrupted by my frantic breathing.
I rounded on him, the moon illuminating a new part of his face with every little step I took. I couldn't suppress the gasp that left my parted lips when I saw his scarred face. I understood then why this was a one-sided conversation.
"Peter?" I asked again.
Nothing.
"Could you give me maybe some kind of sign? I don't know, blink or something if you can hear me…"
The only movement came from the curtains softly dancing at the rhythm of the breeze.
"This is important. I think I know who did this to you, but I need your help. Can you hear me?"
No, he couldn't, as everything I got was a dead stare.
I sighed discouraged. "This is stupid," I muttered.
I sat up from my crouched position in front of Peter Hale's motionless body and shrieked when I saw that we weren't alone. A young man glared at me front the door.
"Who are you?" he asked angrily.
I gripped my bag tightly and tried to find my voice. It came out unusually high pitched. "Laura Hale."
First mistake, as I would realize later.
I didn't think a single person could look so intimidating and I felt the urge to jump out of the window just to not have to deal with this stranger that was murdering me with his cold eyes.
But when I thought he was going to start screaming and yelling at me, he proved me wrong. "You are not Laura Hale," he said calmly, but with an underlying intensity.
"Who are you?" I shot back.
"Derek Hale. I'll ask you again, who are you?"
I swallowed. "Imogene Wise."
"You are not supposed to be here. What are you doing here?"
So this was why he hadn't snapped at me yet. He wanted first to find out more about me and my intentions. But I didn't care anymore. I was still shocked. When I had seen my hopes crushed by Peter's bad condition, I discovered that Derek Hale was back in Beacon Hills. This was my best shot.
"Listen, I think the fire that happened six years ago," the one which killed your family, "I think it wasn't an accident," I paused to gauge his expression. I couldn't make anything out of it. "I think it was deliberate."
I saw him take a deep breath and I was sure this time he was going to yell at me. I even prepared myself for his outburst. What I didn't prepare myself for was for him to close our distance in three long strides and point a finger at me. "Get out of here and forget about my family," he said through gritted teeth.
I forgot how to breathe.
"You know what happened that night," I whispered. I wasn't a question and it surprised both of us.
"Who are you?" he asked again. God, he was thick.
"I told you, my name is Imogene Wise!" I didn't know where this confidence was coming from.
"Why are you here?"
"Were you even listening-?!"
"Why are you posing as my sister?"
"I-I wanted to speak with Peter…"
"Why?"
"I have been investigating the Hale's fire…"
"Why?"
I opened my mouth but no sounds came out. I found myself looking into this stranger's furious glare as my mind tried to formulate an answer for the only question I couldn't rationalize. I had spent my whole life submerged in crime novels and I had wanted the world from those pages to be the world I lived in.
Derek Hale nodded to himself, disdain and pity etched in his fine features. "Keep out of this, forget everything about my family and the fire. This is a warning, I won't tell you again. Now, leave."
I didn't have to be told twice.
The ride back to my house happened in a daze. I barely acknowledged my parents and ran to my bedroom.
I cleaned the blackboard. I took my notebooks and threw them inside the wardrobe. I took out my notes from the red book, so tomorrow I could give it to Chris Argent.
That night, for the first night in eight years, I didn't read before to sleep.
Did you know?
'Giants, Monsters & Dragons: An Encyclopedia of Folklore, Legend and Myth', 'White Wolf Woman & Other Native American Transformation Myths' and 'Myths of the Dog-Man' are real books. The other books offered by Imogene are an invention of the author.
