Chapter Eleven: Clarity
A/N: There's no excuse for a four-month break, but I hope you can forgive the wait and enjoy this next bit! Please review!
Thorn woke up in the early hours of the morning. She looked out the window, finding the sky a calico of blacks and blacker streaks, with hints of grey scattered in the smog. Thirsty and hot beneath the thick afghan, Thorn shrugged out of the sweat-soaked sheets and stretched her lithe body.
The kitchen was dark and noiseless save the chronic drip from a faulty pipe. After a few reviving sips of tap water from the overfilled sink, Thorn crept into the living room to admire the city from above. She found the streets desolate; not even the late night smokers or drinkers were out with their cigarettes and bottles. She could only explain the silence as the ominous kind, as if the clouds would suddenly strike with a violent crack of thunder and a hot blue rod of lighting would flash upon the twisted face of a serial killer in a ski mask; a quick search around the flat confirmed there was no such person concealed in the shadows. The girl was startled from her reflections as the scuffed blue cellphone, left on Sherlock's desk, vibrated with a text. We've found Rachel. Thorn picked up the device, running a finger along the rim of the screen. It was the detective's phone- meant for him, not her. But she was tired of being thought of as an ignorant child, treated like a useless toy kept on a shelf to collect dust. It was time to prove her worth, as the investigator she was. The time for words had come and gone. It was time to act.
Who is she? Thorn's thumbs skirted the keypad as she responded to Lestrade. Her finger hovered over the send button as she considered what she was doing. Was she crossing a line? Definitely. But it wasn't as if she hadn't before. Inevitably, the rules were null and void in her mind. They shriveled up, a wisp of distant smoke. A rush of emotions engulfed her as she sent the message. Fear. Guilt. Heavy shame. Determination. There was no turning back now. A new text illuminated the darkness, and her eyes hungrily devoured the words as they scrawled across. Rachel is Jennifer Wilson's only daughter. Thorn's mind whisked away into oblivion as questions abominated her from all sides. Her daughter? She thought. Why would she write her daughter's name as her last word to the world, before her death? She wasted no time in replying. You need to bring Rachel in. You need to question her. I need to question her.
She's dead.
Two words, and the child's face glowed with the force of a thousand suns. Excellent! She typed, feeling a rush of anticipation, euphoria driving into her heart like a car with a limitless road. How, when, and why? Is there a connection? There has to be. She was trembling with excitement as she waited for Lestrade to write back; the solution to the enigma was staring bluntly at her, nearly within her grasp. If Cordelia were here she would be appalled at her little sister's reaction to death; the elder Rivers was horrified by the mere concept. She detested flowers and candles, because they were featured at funerals-namely, their parents. Thorn was young when they died, when they drowned at sea; but she still remembered the endless rows of blossoms, woven between the mourners, pale pink and periwinkle and sun-fed yellow and endless white lilies, brushing the bases of the coffins. She also recalled wanting to paint the countless flowers when she returned home; she never did, and was left wondering why. She was jolted from her ponderings again as the phone fizzed with life, deflating almost as quickly as she had risen when she saw what the DI had replied: Well I doubt it, since she's been dead for fourteen years. Technically she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer's Wilson's still-born daughter, fourteen years ago. Thorn grasped her midnight-washed bangs as her head reeled in confusion. Why would she write her daughter's name if it had no relevance to the killer? She was dying. Scratching her name into the floorboards, it would have hurt. She was dying. DYING!
And then it all became crystal clear. Like you lifting the veil over your bridal gown to see the alter. Like plunging into cold water when drowsy. Like fitting the last piece to your jigsaw. "Oh," she whispered into the dark. And her voice was hushed, and sacred, like understanding, like knowing the answer was a precious thing. Oh. Thorn's feet lead her to the coffee table, where she fetched John's laptop. She powered it on, the screen glowing a foggy blue in the room. She grabbed Jennifer's case, abandoned near the dead fire, and scanned the information card. Then she typed in an address in the search bar, clicking the first appearing link without hesitation. She was clever, Thorn reflected. When she got out of the car, Wilson knew she was being lead to her death. What did she do? She didn't panic. She didn't think of her still-born daughter. No. She planted the phone on the killer, in order for the police to find him. But the police won't find him tonight. I will.
Successfully on , Thorn plugged the username found on the luggage into the login box (Jennie. Pink) Jennifer didn't have a computer in her case; so she had a smartphone, it was email-enabled. So there's a website for her account. The password, of course, is clear now. It's Rachel. There's a GPS. I'll be able to track the phone back to the killer. Thank goodness we have a victim with a brain, eh? The girl's inspired grin faded as she tracked the blinking dot on the screen with her warm chocolate eyes. The device claimed that the phone she was searching for, the killer she was desperate to locate, was… in this room?
A/N: Oh how I love a cliffhanger. I hope this whets your appetite until the next installment- which should be coming in the next few days. How was this update? I know it's short, but it's a pre-curser to the final culmination of the plot. Thanks for waiting and not unfollowing! Once again, please review! All opinions are welcome!
Until next time,
TheArtist59