Make You Love

Chapter 31

Name: Craig Sherman
Description: 6ft 1 inch, jet black hair and grey eyes.
Last seen: 18th February, 2018, Baltimore.
Reward: £1000

The piece of news made #7 trending on Twitter when Isla logged into her account to randomly stalk Justin Bieber, rubbing her eyes tired out from deep slumber. Her senses kicked awake. Where Craig had gone she had no idea. All she knew was that she had to find him before the feds did... And snuff life out of his body. Like it or not, the police knew her. It was only a matter of seconds before they raided her mansion and dragged her to their station with them. She wiped the drool trickling down the left side of her chin.

As she slipped her feet into her pink Barbie doll slippers, she donned her fluffy white robe and trudged to her bathroom, mumbling incoherent nonsense in her state of drowsiness. Seemed someone wanted a few extra hours in her sweet bed. She pushed open the door, expecting to find her rose petal bath laid out, lavender bath bombs, loofah and other stuff she used for her spa at home.

"Oh my fucking god," she gasped as a murky scene unfolded before her.

The bathroom was a messed up mess, dirty, vile water filled the bathtub, her shampoos and conditioners strewn across the tiles carelessly, the heavy odour of sweat and stench soaked up the air. She made out muddy footsteps staining her precious linoleum a dull brown mush, meandering a path to the window whose ledge had been pushed up and jumped through.

"Damn. Say what the fuck is this?"

Releasing a frustrated groan, she tiptoed gingerly in the midst of the hay-men, scanning her surroundings like a bullion, fire alarms blaring in her head, blinking red at the traffic lights.

"Jesus, no. I can't- Who did this?"

Her heart jammed up it's beating rate working furiously like an industrial machine, at the brink of ejecting her throat out of her mouth. No one answered. No one heard. Only the patient ticking of her bedside clock defied the silence. As she opened the toilet seat, a wad of tissue paper fell out. She narrowed her eyes in suspicion. Hang on a sec. Stooping to the floor, she picked it up with the tips of her fingers, fearing it might be stained with shit or some deadly bacteria. Then she noticed it. The neatly scrawled handwriting on the tissue in black ink. The signature at the bottom she had known all her seventeen years of being an asshole on Earth. Could it be...?

No, she refuted her thoughts. No. She must not think of that possibility.

I'm gone. Don't look for me. Find somewhere to hide; quit that mansion, by all means, run away. Take my care of my mom.
PS: I stole five dollars from my dumbass prison guard.

xoxoxo
C. S.

Indeed, five crumpled dollar notes lay in between the wet, sticky tissue. Isla extracted and plonked them in her jar for charity donation she kept in her kitchen. Bless his kind soul.