Like It Never Happened
Hufflepuff
Astronomy: Crime
Prompts:
1 — [Dialogue (multiline)] "Trust in your gut." / "What's your gut telling you?"
2 — [First line] She never knew that a simple run in the morning could change her life, but it did.
WC: 2940 (google docs)
Like It Never Happened
She never knew that a simple run in the morning could change her life, but it did.
Marianne had sensed that something awful would happen that morning. It was a rock-solid pit of dread that sagged in her stomach as her husband Bill laced up his trainers. She would have tried to keep him from going on his morning jog, but he wouldn't have listened to her anyway. Instead, he'd have shrugged her off, paying no mind to her silly premonitions, which, according to Bill, were more of a reason for caution, not trust. Gut feelings couldn't hold a candle to facts and evidence.
He used to joke about it. "Trust in your gut? That's no way to live."
"Why? What's your gut telling you?" The corners of her mouth would curl in amusement; she secretly loved their playful debates. Challenging each other had become a flirtatious past-time over the years, and it was good for him too. As the lead investigator of the local detective squad, Bill had her to thank for his polished interrogation skills.
"My gut's telling me to eat more vegetables." He'd lean back in his chair and pat his belly, now round with memories of cozy movie nights spent sipping hot cocoa from matching mugs, their intertwined fingers slippery from the extra butter on their popcorn. "Now, why would I listen to that?"
To a certain extent, he was right. Marianne often relied too heavily on emotions, waving aside inconvenient facts. Her opinions and beliefs were always fast-formed and long-lasting. Bill encouraged her to take a step back; to get to know people before forming judgments, to 'sleep on it' before buying the shoes, and to consider her bias.
And in return, Marianne never hesitated to say 'I told you so' when a roundabout investigation led back to the first suspect, the one that 'seemed a bit off' even before the evidence came through.
What a mistake it had been to keep quiet that fateful morning. She nervously watched from the window as Bill picked up his pace, trotting along the pavement until he rounded the corner and disappeared from view. She should have listened to her gut.
Forty-five anxious minutes later, the front door reopened, and in walked a man. He had Bill's same sandy hair, his jolly round belly, and was even wearing his running clothes, but that's where the similarities ended. He was different. The way he bumped into the doorway looked like someone accustomed to riding a bicycle was trying to navigate a narrow alleyway in a truck.
Then she peered into his hazel eyes, and their sparkle was gone. That was when she knew — it wasn't Bill looking back at her, but an imposter.
So she did what she should have done before. She trusted her gut.
Where did that lead her? Gateway Home For The Criminally Insane.
Her diagnosis? Capgras Syndrome.
She had never heard of the condition before, not until Sullivan, her attorney, pushed a pamphlet into her cuffed hands.
"What is this?" she asked, pinching the paper between her two fingers like a dirty napkin.
"Your defense."
She eyed the pamphlet, scrunching her nose as if it smelled.
Capgras Syndrome, also known as Capgras Delusion, is the irrational belief that a familiar person or place has been replaced with an exact duplicate.
"No," she said, sliding the pamphlet across the table. "That's not what I have. It's not a delusion."
Sullivan tugged at his hair in frustration, which was becoming more and more unruly each time they met. He was beginning to look like a strung-out mad scientist.
"You have to plead insanity. It's your only shot. You killed your husband, Marianne."
"That man was not my husband," she stated.
"No one will believe that," he groaned. "Not unless you have some evidence."
Marianne frowned and tried to cross her arms in front of her chest, wincing when her handcuffs prevented it. She didn't have any evidence. She just knew.
Unfortunately, that wasn't going to be enough.
"Fine," she said through gritted teeth. "I'll plead insanity."
And that was that.
x
It was technically a stroke of luck that the judge believed her plea, but she felt far from fortunate as she sat on the lumpy twin mattress in her plain-jane hospital frock.
She opened the drawer of her nightstand to shuffle through cut-outs of newspaper articles that she'd collected for her own investigation. They'd taken away her pinboard — the thumbtacks and cotton twine connecting local catastrophic events back to William's passport picture were deemed too hazardous.
Not a problem; she had it all memorized. She couldn't understand how a plane crash, a mass hospital poisoning, or the collapse of a nearby dam could be written off as "accidents." Even Marianne, who so readily trusted her instincts, agreed that these cases had been closed too quickly. It appeared that the lead investigator for all of these crimes didn't bother with evidence at all.
Two airplanes don't just collide head-on unless it's planned, and there had been no investigation into the air traffic controller that was responsible for directing them that day. She ran her fingers over the headline — Local Detective Says Plane Crash Was An Honest Mistake.
Then there was the hospital event. Police Department Blames Mass Hospital Death On A Bad Batch Of Morphine. Marianne didn't know much about morphine, but she was pretty sure it didn't come in batches, and someone had to be responsible for contaminating it.
And the collapsed dam? Law Enforcement Responds To Dam Catastrophe: "Sometimes These Things Just Happen."
Reading further into the article made her stomach clench.
Det. William McCormick confirmed that although the dam passed a comprehensive inspection a few days prior to its collapse, there was nothing suspicious about the event. "It was a freak accident," he said. "Sometimes these things just happen." When asked what evidence he had to close the case, he responded, "A gut feeling."
She couldn't ignore the signs; Bill's imposter was incompetent and reckless, shrugging off these catastrophes as if he wanted planes to crash and dams to collapse. Someone needed to stop him, and when no one listened to her pleas, she took matters into her own hands.
Now that she was at Gateway, Sullivan told her to stop speaking of such things because her murder case was 'over' and she'd 'freak people out.'
That was the reason she was hesitant to talk to the two strange men who stopped in for an unexpected visit. When they knocked on her door and peered into her room, she motioned them in because, honestly, what choice did she have?
One of the men was tall, freckly, and had blinding red hair. Maybe it wasn't that vibrant, but against the asylum-white walls of her tiny cell of a bedroom, it made her wish she had sunglasses. But alas, she wasn't allowed any. Too pointy.
The other man had a messy black mop of hair, a ghastly scar on his forehead, and wore round, crooked spectacles. He was a bit shorter and scrawnier than the other but still had a look of confidence — a gleam in his eye that suggested he had seen some horrors. Marianne wondered what traumas he could have possibly experienced at such a spritely young age. It couldn't be worse than sharing a bed with a stranger claiming to be her husband, going to trial for his murder, or living in a mental institution.
"Mrs. McCormick?" asked the shorter man when they entered her room. "I'm Agent Potter, and this is my colleague Agent Weasley."
The men stood stiffly as if trapped inside their suits. It caused Marianne's skin to crawl and reminded her of the man she'd killed. Unlike her husband, "William" had hated wearing smart clothes. He'd waddle in a blazer like a penguin wearing a turtle shell, his tie knotted around his neck like a noose because he couldn't remember how to fasten it.
"Whatever information you want, you're not getting it from me," said Marianne. She gestured to the half-empty bottle of antipsychotics locked in the safe on her bedside table. "They say I'm not a reliable source."
"Well," said the ginger, wincing as he adjusted his necktie. "We think you are."
The sleeves of his jacket were too short, and Marianne caught a glimpse of swirly scars on his arms. She wondered what caused those.
"Agent Weasley?"
"You can call me Ron."
She narrowed her eyes at the man. Ron. The way he said his name sounded natural, slipping from his lips like an exhale. It was nothing like "William" introducing himself — pausing before saying his name as if to make sure he used the right alias, over-emphasizing each syllable.
"Ron. Is that short for something?" asked Marianne.
He shrugged, and a lopsided grin spread across his face. "Short for Ronald. But 'Ron's' more me."
Just like her husband didn't much like William. 'Call me Bill.'
The imposter, however, didn't seem to mind it. He wouldn't even answer to "Bill."
"What do you want to know, Ron?" she asked, her eyes shifting between the two, "and Agent Potter?"
"Call me Harry. We want to know why you killed the man who called himself William."
Marianne froze, her mouth agape. She was the only person to phrase it that way. No one "official" had ever believed her. "You're… you're not agents, are you?"
The two men exchanged a knowing glance, engaging in a silent conversation, the kind only two close friends could have. Then Harry let the door close behind him, and Ron took a step closer. "No, we're not really agents."
"Then who are you?"
The men briefly met each other's gaze and nodded. Ron pulled up a chair from the corner and took a seat. "We're called Aurors. We investigate crimes that might have a…" he trailed off, unable to find the correct word.
"Paranormal aspect," Harry finished for him. "We think there's something sinister going on."
"Well, I could have told you that," said Marianne. "So, Aurors, huh? Is that a fancy word for Ghost-hunters? Demon-exorcisers?"
"Something like that," grinned Harry.
Marianne waited, but the men did not provide any more information. She wasn't surprised, as she knew better than to expect it, but still, something about the men seemed trustworthy, even after admitting they were imposters too. They believed her.
So, she told them the truth.
"I killed him because he wasn't my husband. He was part of a network of imposters, and he was using my husband's position in law enforcement to cover up their crimes. They were trying to wreak havoc on our society." She slid open the drawer containing relevant headlines, fully aware of how unlikely her proposal sounded, and handed them over to the men.
Marianne then lowered her voice to a whisper, fearing that Gateway staff might overhear her and increase her medication dosage. Again. "I thought he was working with the dam inspector, the air traffic controller, and someone in charge of quality control at the hospital. Maybe the crime reporter too. But no one believed me, and now I'm stuck living in this hell hole."
There it was, all of her trauma, simplified and watered-down into a bite-sized tablet. It was an easy enough pill to swallow but an impossible one to believe, at least while still maintaining a facade of sanity. It made the judge pity Marianne enough to recommend a Clozapine prescription over a prison sentence. How lucky for her.
She wondered if the judge had truly believed that Marianne was insane or if she simply feared ending up in the empty cell next door, wearing her very own hospital gown. When Ron and Harry's eyes grew wide in shock, she momentarily wondered the same about them.
"You did the right thing," said Ron. He beamed at her, and her shoulders relaxed in relief. "And we thank you for it. We've been trying to track down that bugger for ages."
Marianne felt a rush of something warm but couldn't name it. She could only hide so many pills under her tongue during med-checks, and emotional clarity was the first thing that disappeared with each dose.
"Well, if not my husband, who was he?"
"His name was Walden McNair, and he was a murderer."
Marianne didn't even bother feigning surprise. "Huh. Never heard of him. Did you find Bill?"
Ron and Harry smiled at her. "We did. He's back at home, and you're getting out of here today."
Marianne shot up to a seat. "Bill's alive?"
The men nodded.
"And I'm going home?"
They smiled and nodded again.
Marianne narrowed her eyes. "How are you going to convince them to let me leave?
Ron fiddled with a stick in his pocket. "We have our ways. You just have to trust us."
She crossed her arms in front of her body and cocked her head to the side. "Only if you tell me what's really going on."
Ron reached into the small knapsack on his belt and pulled out a pile of folded clothes. Marianne peered at him curiously — the bag surely wasn't big enough for that. "Fair enough. Here's a change of clothes. I'll cause a diversion, and Harry will bring you home."
She looked down at the clothes. They were hers, so the men had definitely been to her house.
They weren't lying. She could tell. But something strange was happening.
"Where did you find Bill?" she asked, watching as Ron fished in his too-small bag for something else.
"In a dungeon," said Harry. "He was taken hostage with a dam inspector, an air traffic controller, a hospital lab technician, and a crime reporter."
"I was right?!"
"Don't act so surprised," said Ron. "But you do need to change into normal clothes."
"Right." The men averted their eyes while Marianne shimmied out of her hospital gown and into a pair of trousers and a jumper. It smelled like home.
"Here's what's going to happen," said Harry, once Marianne was fully dressed. "Ron is going to throw something, and the whole floor will go dark. When that happens, I will grab your hand, and you have to hold on as tightly as you can."
"Wait, what? I don't understand. We're not driv—" started Marianne.
"One, two, three, GO!" interrupted Harry, and multiple things happened at once.
Ron threw what looked to be a grenade, and as soon as it hit the floor, a cloud of black smoke engulfed the room. They were immersed in darkness less than a second later.
That was when the screams began — people were surprisingly terrified of the dark.
Then Marianne felt Harry's hand grasp hers, heard a deafening crack, and was jolted backward into a different dimension, like a fish flailing from the water on a hook.
A few seconds and a whirlwind of nausea later, Marianne tumbled onto solid ground, panting.
"What the BLOODY HELL—" she started, but she cut herself off when she realized where they were. A stately white house with blue shutters stood before her, and she could hear Bill's favorite Beatles' album reverberating from his living-room record player. The comforting smell of dinner sizzling on the stove leaked from an open kitchen window.
She was home.
Marianne scrambled to her feet and turned toward the door, but Harry's grip on her wrist tightened.
"Hold on," he said with a surprising amount of authority. "Let's talk about this first."
She shuddered when she met his gaze, unsure if she should continue to trust Harry or give in to her sudden, overwhelming fear of him. Who was this man, anyway?
A better question: What was this man?
They had just defied physics by vanishing from the hospital and appearing at her home. Either something supernatural was happening, or her Clozapine prescription was a placebo. It didn't seem possible. Imposters were one thing, but this?
She recalled Harry's introduction, "We investigate crimes that might have a paranormal aspect." She had believed him without question. Maybe everyone was right, and she was insane.
"I need to see my husband. NOW," she said through clenched teeth. "I need to know what he went through—"
Harry kept his grip on her wrist. "I know you want him to tell you everything, but I'm afraid he won't be able to. He doesn't remember."
"What? How is that possible?"
"Marianne, listen. I need you to go inside and act completely normal. Can you do that?"
"How the hell can I act normal after all that's happened to me?"
"Trust me. Please."
She stared into his pleading emerald eyes, once again conflicted. Act normal? She couldn't possibly.
"Okay," she told him. It was clearly what Harry wanted to hear.
When Harry nodded and let go of her hand, Marianne pivoted toward her doorstep. She was fully aware that he was watching her, and it made her shudder.
As soon as she reached the front door, the shudders ceased, and she was overcome with euphoria. A loud crack sounded behind her, and she whipped around to find the source, but nothing was there.
We really need to trim the hedges, she thought to herself, scanning the overgrown greenery lining her front yard. How did we let it get so wild?
With a shrug, she turned back toward the house. It would be nice to see Bill after such a long day.
"Bill?" she called as she stepped inside.
"Marianne! I'm in the kitchen!"
Marianne smiled and followed the hearty, mouth-watering scent to reunite with her husband, completely oblivious to the trauma of the last few months.
Like it never happened.