A.N - We apologise for the lateness of this update. Mostly, it's my fault. But then I thought, ok, maybe I actually should update this now, it turned out that we lost our plan and so we spent days looking it up in our DM's, documents and Chat logs. But here it is - finally. We hope we still have some readers out there. :)
And I'd also like to plug in our awards sight - vote for your faves now in the polls. At this present moment in time, we only have 6 unique voters. We kinda need more. Vote, vote, vote!
-- Moonie, as I'm so kindly known by Moondancing Millie.
Mysterious Girl
The Investigation
Honesty (noun) – 1. The quality or condition of being honest; integrity.
2. Truthfulness; sincerity.
"Jesse De Silva," my voice was tired, audibly laced with exhaustion and, judging by the gasps that greeted me when the door was opened, my eyes were red and bloodshot with bags underneath them. I flashed them my I.D card. "I'm part of the investigation to find your daughter's … murderer."
My voice caught on the final word, knowing that it was this man who also caused my sister's fate. The same man caused a great deal of pain to both of our families.
"De Silva?" The woman – Mrs. Peterson – mused to her husband. "Wasn't that name of …?" Her eyes widened as her husband nodded and she turned her grief-filled eyes of understanding back towards me. "I'm sorry for your loss."
I smiled tightly. "I guess I know how you feel." I felt Susannah's arm curl against my elbow, offering her comfort.
"I'm Susannah Simon," she introduced herself. "Do you mind if we investigate your daughters room? We need to see if we can find any clues."
"Of course," they murmured, stepping aside. "Go ahead."
Thanking them, Susannah led me past the grieving couple and up the staircase, glancing in every room until she came to the one that obviously belonged to my sister's best friend. They looked similar. Painted with a light purple coat of glossy paint, pictures of the two of them blu-tacked to the wall as well as the huge posters of one Paul Slater.
Susannah paused, glancing up at the poster thoughtfully. I couldn't help but wonder if she was thinking about him, if she'd rather be with him now and, in spite of the situation I was in, I felt my hand gripping hers tightly. In response, I felt her lips against my cheek.
"It's okay," she whispered. "I was just wondering how we ever thought he could be the murderer. He's not your average choice."
"It's always the person you least suspect."
Susannah shrugged. "You can look through the dressing table, if you want. It may be easier for you, considering you … knew her. You might know what to look for."
"I can't." I told her. "It's still all a bit raw." She nodded sympathetically. "But, the dressing table. Both Taylor and Marta sent letters to Paul. Can you see if they received a reply?"
Sitting on the stool in the bedroom, my eyes were drawn to a picture of my sister and her best friend together and smiling on the beach. They looked so carefree, so young and so full of life. I felt tears sting my eyes, desperate to be released. I couldn't believe Marta had gone …
"Here." Susannah's soft voice interrupted me as she slid a note along the table towards me. "Look who signed it."
The name 'Paul Slater' was scrawled in a penmanship so similar to Paul's that it could have been his. The only reason I knew that this wasn't Paul's work was the informal interrogation that Paul had been subjected to earlier. He had claimed that he never personally responded to any of his fan mail, that his assistant had done it all on the computer.
There were more then one of these letters, all signed by 'Paul Slater' in the same way as before. All the letters were hand-written but the most recent one held the evidence that I needed. In it was written one simple sentence.
Meet me there at one o'clock on the morning of the twenty-second.
But that was also the day that Taylor Peterson had gone missing.
"Whoever wrote this murdered Taylor," I breathed angrily. "I just wish I knew who."
Frustrated, I scrunched up the paper in my hand and glared down at the rumpled ball it now resembled. Then I spotted it – so tiny that I held the small watermark up to the light just to check that it was actually there. Just one word was visible. One word that sealed the fate of the man who killed my sister, Taylor and countless others. He would pay for his crimes.
Beaumont.
The check in/identification process seemed to take forever. I'd taken Susannah back to her apartment with a promise that I'd go home, rest and then pick her up again in a few hours to confront Beaumont together. Needless to say, it wasn't going to happen. I didn't want Susannah to see how angry I was sure to get.
"Ah, Jessup!" The man – murderer – greeted me happily. "How can I help?"
"It's Jesse." The word escaped from between clenched teeth in a growling noise. Normally, I let this mispronunciation of my name slide but this man killed my sister. "And, as it turns out, Paul isn't the murderer."
The man gave no other reaction than the widening of his eyes. Two bright spots of colour stained his cheeks. "This is an outrage, Jessup." Beaumont insisted. "Don't be ridiculous! Of course Paul is the murderer!"
I could practically feel my eyes glaze with anger. "My name," I insisted, "is Jesse. And I'm not being 'ridiculous', as you so eloquently put it." My tone was verging on disrespectful. "Paul Slater has an alibi from a very reliable source for this morning. Do you know what happened this morning, Beaumont?"
Slowly, the man shook his head, fear lining his irises and pinching at the corner of his eyes.
"My sister was found dead." Pausing, I leant my arms forward on the desk, taking deep breaths to calm myself. "And an eye witness claimed to see someone push her off a cliff."
"This someone," Beaumont insisted. "You're sure that it's not Paul?"
"I'm positive." I replied. "He was with Susannah all morning. She wouldn't lie."
Beaumont scoffed. "You'd be surprised, Jessup," the name caused my eyes to narrow, "just how persuasive Paul Slater can be. Your precious Susannah could've been sleeping quite peacefully this morning after a night of –"
"Don't say it. Susannah wouldn't do that. Paul is not the murderer."
"But all the evidence points to him." The words were mumbled so much that I had to strain to hear them.
It was then that I caught sight of the small red packet strewn haphazardly on the man's desk. My anger was uncontrollable.
"Not," I told him. "All of the evidence." I gestured towards the cigarettes on his desk - the same brand Paul Slater smoked and was found on the victims' body's.
Pulling out a pair of handcuffs with one hand as I turned a gun on him with the other, I spoke the words that were sure to infuriate the man opposite me. "Mr. Beaumont, you are under the arrest for the murder of –"
He acted so quickly, knocking the handcuffs to the floor and pushing me off balance before snatching the weapon out of my arms.
"It seems, Jesse," my name was sneered in a way that told me he knew my name all along. "That I didn't hide my tracks as well as I thought I had." He pulled back the safety catch and rested his finger against the trigger. "And now I just have one more victim to add to my list."
I froze in fear, defenceless, exhausted and with nowhere to run as the gun was focused on my chest, right above my heart.
"Shame, really," Beaumont continued with an evil sneer. "You were such a promising agent."