Looking Glass

Chapter 2

She tries to distract herself by reading, an attempt proving futile. The book is gently set down on the chaise beside her, and she stands up, walks over to the windowsill. Arms rest against the gilded metal, cold in the autumn air.

Her eyes are tipped upwards to the sky.

Thoughts raze like the moving clouds, a contradiction of hast and laxed; either way she can't stop worrying. Pit in her stomach, looming weight; she still doesn't know the fate of Mary Allen; tapping fingers. Tiredness from a lack of sleep; a visit, she decides.

After that, would it then perhaps provide the relief she so seeks for.

. . .

Thank the lord, she realises, that Mary Allen's store is close to her home, an easy distance in between should the store be empty; it's a cross of fingers. She reaches the tea store soon enough.

Hesitation is a lingering reaction that surfaces as she tries to look into the store. There is nothing she can see, in dismay, curtains closed. Quelling a rising worry a quest more difficult than she hoped for, nails bite through the gloves to palms as she grips them in fists.

The ornate closed sign is like a mockery at her.

She breathes, walks over to the next store beside, a watchmaker. The old man with the eye loupe looks up at her, nodding in greeting. "How can I help you, miss?"

"Might I enquire if you know how the owner of the tea store is?"

Annoyance is painted on a canvas, her question after all not polite in terms of to a business. Perhaps the urgency is visible on her face, he does nothing but sigh. Exasperation still lingers, but not as strongly as before.

"She has not been here all morning."

His words are like a train wreck.

. . .

Hope was a dangerous feeling; it often left only disappointment. A trait and nature so wholly humane, she cannot help but hope even if she thinks it's useless. Finger clutch at loose strings, however easily it could lead to nothing. She was not, Theseus in the labyrinth.  

Panic reaches new heights as she reaches the address Mary Allen had told her. She can see a crowd of people, murmurs and hums; it does everything to enforce a fear that coiled inside; she has to force herself not to run at the sight of so many people.

She has to tiptoe, to look over the heads that formed a sea.

The little white house in the centre, with the daisies all neatly in a row. 

She can recall the smile Mary Allen wears as she says that, eyes fond in love for her children. The weight comes crushing down the moment she sees an officer come out through the door.

It's black for a moment, and even with open eyes. It's fully dark.

She sees the long path ahead despite dimness; sorrow and sting. The weight in the pit drops further, she can't breathe.

Deep breaths, a reminder, the intake of oxygen burns her throat. Her fingers tremble uncontrollably, grip on her purse tightening till knuckles turn white, there is nothing she can do.

Whispers increasing in volume prompts her to look up, and she's just in time to see an officer walk out. All everything does is cause the emotions to rage on, the officer's appearance nor the crowd's whispers are of any help.

She listens in on a conversation between two ladies beside her, voices loud.

A murder.

Who is it?

A lady I heard.

She grits her teeth, blocking out the voices; she doesn't want to hear more of it. A police officer comes forward, yelling for the crowd to disperse. Mumbles and grumbles follow, shuffling of feet, everyone leaves.

She walks forward, heading over to the house surrounded by the officers, it's like a walk into hell. She tries to peek inside, view blocked once the realisation comes at what she is attempting. One of them holds up a hand to her.

"No entry, miss."

She swallows the clog in her throat, fingers wringing her purse harder. "I just need to know who was it."

The officer shakes his head. "Afraid not, miss. No information to be released until further."

Eyes flicker to her hands, watching. "I just need to check. I-"

She stops herself; deep breaths, she has to remind herself again. Fingers clench and unclench, her voice almost breaks to give away. "I think I might now the person who lives here."

Sympathy makes her grip the purse harder again; she tries to avoid any sort of eye contact, her last encounter with a police officer hadn't been pleasant. A distant memory, locked away.

An uncomfortable look comes over the officer, the other nudging him, a warning.

"I understand your concerns, miss. But we cannot allow you entry." How she wants to say back him, that no, he doesn't. He doesn't know how she's already seen the scene inside, seen whatever horror there is inside.

Details and blood.

"I-"

She doesn't get to speak; another officer comes over from the house next. "Can I help you, miss?" 

She swallows, wringing fingers. "I believe I might know who lives here. I need to see, check, I-"

The officer holds up his hand, shaking his head. "No one is allowed entry except police personnel. As much as your circumstances are understandable, there are no exceptions." He's far more strict than the other officers shuffling behind.

She's silent, blinking, lets out a breath, voice quiet. "Could I at least get a name? Just-" A nail pricks her palm, and she has to control herself from further digging her nails. "just so that I know it is who I think it is."

One of the officers in the back begins to speak, cut off in a heartbeat. "No exceptions, miss. As commiserating your situation is, miss, the papers will release the whatever need be tomorrow. You may check then."

Her voice is beyond small now, purse dropping to her side. "I see. Thank you."

She turns, proceeds to walk away, ignoring the sharp whispers she can hear from the officers. 

She doesn't need to, neither does she want to hear it, it's background noise now.

Sudden footsteps she can hear behind her, a shout. Disbelief blooms; she recognises the voice. A twist around; she's right, eyes wide at the figure rushing up towards her.

Oh. 

Perhaps she had been wrong.