Silverstreams

Seven. That was the amount of bullet wounds that punctured Fletcher's flesh. Scattered on the bony, deflated figure of his torso. Two was the amount of teenagers that had stumbled across the body that day. The amount of people that would be suspects to murder. Both knew they had to find the murderer before the police found the body, especially considering Fletcher was the mute son of Grayson Greavson, the chief of police. Zero was the amount of suspects they had and even though blood seemed to move in slow motion, dripping down the side of trees and off the body onto the dewy moss, they both new time was slipping through their  shaking fingers.

The revelation that Silverstreams wasn't the innocent town they had thought it to be was a crude shock to their senses. Levi was assessing the situation. Seven fatal bullet wounds meant only one of them was needed to escort Fletcher to the angels, but seven... With a sickening feeling twisting his stomach into knots he realised the rage that powered the murder. He thought of Graysons secure position in the force and how he would pass the honour not to his eldest son but Fletcher who, as a surprise to everyone, was smart and strong and well worth the attention he received. With a calculating perspective he checked on Violet, who stood beside him clamping her notebook like it was a life source.

With a heart of steel she shoved away every emotion including horror, hatred, disgust. Only after choking down the bile in her throat did she straighten her spine and analyse the damage. Bending on shaky legs she considered dragging the corpse to a hidden area, giving them time to search for the killer, but one touch of the porcelain skin and her lunch was thrown everywhere. Wiping her mouth she ignored the unsettling limpness and made him cross his hands over his vermillion chest. Get rid of the body, get rid of the body, get rid of the body, the words ran through her mind like a broken radio. She noticed the freshness of each bullet wound and panic surged through her as realisation stuck her harder than any blow would. The killer wasn't far, an oozing surge of blood from one of the wounds confirmed her theories and she looked desperately at Levi.

Crack.

Levi sprinted and, muscles protesting, Violet scrambled from her crouched position and followed, into the woodland forest running after the chorus of cracking sounds that sung through the fir trees.

Violet halted to a stop, almost falling on the mass of limbs that was Levi and Jeremy Greavson.Jeremy held a gun in his trembling hands, which were currently wrapped in Levi's, wrestling for the machinery. After wrenching the glock from Jeremy's surprisingly strong grip, Levi scrambled to his feet panting. Violet noticed the beads of sweat now dripping down his face and realised Jeremy's skeleton-like figure was more powerful than first imagined.

Levi, who held the most amount of knowledge about guns, considering his family was a long line of hunters, analysed the compartments. The gun was missing 7 bullets from its magazine."Did you?" Even Violet's calculating eyes and firm voice couldn't hide the tremors of fear they both felt tickling their nerves.

Jeremy's face fell and only then did they realise he had been smiling. His eyes drifted over them in fluid anger as his steady voice leaked words that confirmed the worst: "I should have done it a long time ago." His mouth quirked before he sobered and held up his hands in surrender. "I murdered my precious little brother. Confession enough for you?"

Neither moved.

"Well?" His calm characteristics hardened, "I killed the guy who stole my spotlight. The one who always wins," With a deranged smile he finished "And now I can finally be noticed." Still no one moved, too shocked that Fletchers brother had sought to murder him. "You are going behind bars." The stammering voice came from Violet, whose face was now frighteningly pale.

"Well hurry up with it." Jeremy said, a wicked smile plastered on his face once more.

With shaking hands, Levi reached into his pocket, muscle memory alone entering his password and dialling 911. It was half an hour until the police arrived. Half an hour until the neon red, blue, red, blue, flashed through the dense woodland and the sirens called their wailing song. Half an hour until they took the pale plastic sheet and covered the corpse, concealing Fletcher.

Neither of them felt the same after that, not in a town that had turned from a demure bunny to a murderous snake in a single night.

Both of them longed to forget that the fairy-floss innocealnce of Silverstreams was a facade, that there could be more lies that continued to shroud their humble town in mystery and that the boy who never spoke a word, never would.