After considerable agonising, I've decided to just go ahead and post this short chapter. I've rewritten it over three times and at this point I don't think I can really do much more with it. There is considerable less humour in this one (sorry) than previous chapters but the next one should be a bit more fun. I have another I'm just about finished editing as well as a mamoth of another chapter (for my standards) all written out that I'm now trying to make some sense of. So hopefully another chapter will be up relatively again from Hitchcock.
Much, much thanks to the people leaving comments (I'm sorry I can't personally respond to the guests). Your feedback really is amazingly helpful.
The scene is one M has probably observed a few too many times for her own health and sanity, even so, it succeeds in twisting some tiny invisible device of torture deep in her gut where she likes to keep things she doesn't remember and isn't sure the absent memories would be better.
"Where did it happen this time?"
Mr. Giant Death Head Moth, as she sometimes likes to call her tall companion (it's a perfectly good name despite Wallace and Eli's complaints), looks like he's going to try and dodge around her question, which is all the answer M really needs, still, it doesn't mean she won't pass up on the opportunity to rub it in. "So at the after party that was put on for the latest indie movie premier on campus. Good to know."
She's likely going straight to hell but when the corners of the man's mouth dip down slightly exposing his discomfort, it warms her cold, cold heart.
"Tad Wilson is in town."
The remark grants M the man's full attention though he nevertheless asks skeptically. "Are you sure?"
Abstaining from an eye roll she settles on shrugging. "Hard to miss when you run right into the guy."
"Have you been compromised?"
M ignores the disapproving look being shot her way and retorts acidly. "Last time I checked I wasn't undercover in an official manner."
"You think he might have something to do with this?"
"I doubt it but either way it isn't good. He mentioned Carmen's name. I think we should probably warn her about him."
"Ms. Ruiz has moved out of state."
"And the others?"
"Don't. There isn't any way for Wilson to know where any of them are at this point. It can only be a coincidence that he's back in Neptune and there's no need to alarm anyone."
Biting her tongue, M refrains from snapping that nothing is just chance in this godforsaken town unless one considers systematically ignoring at risk populations a coincidence. Instead she nods her head towards the glass. "I'd like to have a moment in there."
Shifting slightly the blonde's companion eyes her with disapproval. "The victim doesn't remember anything, there's really no point."
The man's condescension runs so thick it's almost ingestible and she only just manages to stop herself from adopting a life of crime right there in the hallway. Instead M counts down from ten until she can open her mouth without also wrapping her hands around her companion's neck. The process is slow.
M will admit, if only to herself, that at present it's not helping that a part of her driving motivation tends to be born out of what she can only really describe (were she to dare to find the words) as an often impulsive need to survive her own ruminations and the unanswerable questions that infest the recesses of her mind. Stumbling onto this particular trail of breadcrumbs that has plunged her into the vilest dredges of society (if society still counts there) hits nerves she'd assumed long cauterized. Now the safe haven she usually finds in investigation has been turned inside out and it's dawning on her that she's presently trapped between her own thoughts and the case.
Eventually M gains some semblance of control and grits out, "You asked me in on this."
It's only the glass's slight reflectiveness that allows her to catch her companion's almost imperceptible head movement, the lone sign that he'll acquiesce to her request. The man's always been an ass about the dramatics.
Returning her attention to the panel of windows, M studies the young woman connected to the hospital bed and all its fine machinery. As the short blonde had already predicted the violence is escalating again. Unlike the very first cases though, this victim comes from a wealthy family. It's a relatively recent change in the pattern of attacks, one that at this point the blonde is fairly certain is due solely to the fact that someone is getting sloppy (or perhaps bold). Unfortunately it's the only reason anyone is listening. Yet another bitter feather M gets to stick in her hat along with the depressing vindication of having people finally look to her for answers, even if they do so grudgingly.
Weidman (she tries not to think his name too often), her dower associate, is correct about one thing (not that she has to concede much when he's only stating the obvious), there is little point dredging up what happened again with the victim. A bashed in skull will tend to do that and in the victim's present state, maybe it's a sort of cruel kindness.
However, even if it's pointless and she is merely speaking to the sterile walls, M will tell this girl that regardless of the whispers (they're always there) what happened to her was not her fault.