RoseBlood

Paranoia

I sometimes think that if it wasn't for Lizzie, I might just go mad staying at home for hours at a time with no proper company. Not desperate enough to join an after-school club or anything like that - even the book clubs are slow-paced where I live - or come to a random classmate's birthday party to make friends. Mia's enough for now. I'm not a complete sociopath; don't see the point in lying so I don't bother, I do have empathy, am a very reliable person and don't see the point in exaggerating either. Just get to the point, people, because time may not be money, but it'll stop for no man.

Elizabeth Hutton is our designated housekeeper. She's a nice woman with neat honey-brown hair that's greying a few inches down from the roots, always tied up in a bun. She's in her mid-sixties but doesn't let that or hardly anything tire her, a definite hard worker. Sweeping the floors purposefully, wiping down the surfaces after spraying them a couple of times, multi-tasking almost effortlessly in the kitchen and usually giving the leftovers or slightly burnt buns and cakes to me when my parents aren't looking. She's been working for my parents for years. Ever since their work went up and personal lives went down so low there's no distinction between the two anymore.

She works every weekday and leaves at around eight o'clock in the evening, back to her own small house with her husband and Siamese cat called Isla. She often brings me old Agatha Christie paperbacks to read when I've finished my own, chatting about characters and clues while she cooks and cleans around the house. Mum had told her about the party, and so Lizzie had gone out to the supermarket and come back with two big shopping bags full of ingredients. I help her put them in the kitchen, and she starts unloading them with a light sigh.

"I suppose there will be all sorts of fancy managers and clients from your parents' work coming," she comments, placing items neatly on the fridge shelves. "Real estate agents and whatnot. Back in my day, we went for the jobs we dreamed of, not jobs to make you rich and have cameras flashing in your face when you set foot outside. You don't want that either, do you, love?"

I shake my head, lips quirking up into a small smile. "No, I don't."

"Any friends your age coming too?"

"Just Mia," I respond, then roll my eyes when I think of my parents encouraging their workmates' kids to come along too. "But they'll probably try to get others to come along too. It'll just be awkward. I don't see why people have to make such a big deal out of these things."

"Neither do I, if I'm honest," Lizzie agrees, closing the fridge and rummaging in the bags for things to put in the cupboards. "Well, you'll be eighteen, which is pretty much looked at as an adult's age. So this may be your last party or whatever they'll insist on throwing you."

"Yeah, I'll be a legal adult," I agree, scrunching my nose in distaste, "but I don't know what I want to do as a job."

"I see you as an investigator of some kind," Lizzie suggests with a half-smile, closing the cupboards and putting the bags away. "An investigator of grisly murders and dark crimes. A little too real for my taste, but it might suit you."

"Yeah," I say in thoughtful amusement, "my parents would love that."

"It's not about what your parents would love," Lizzie points out. "If you wanted to be a stripper or something stupid like that, I'd agree with them. But this is your life, Holly, and making your own decisions are part of the things that make you an adult."

"Well, I'm fine at Maths and English, which are usually what's required," I tell her, and she leans on the counter for a break, facing me. "And problem-solving and communication skills are what they'd look for too. But I'd probably need to get a degree in criminology."

"You do psychology already," Lizzie says with a small frown. "I'd say that counts. Well, anyway, have a think about it, and don't you worry about your mum and dad, Holls. There's much more to the world than money and popularity. It just depends on what you're after."

I think about what me and Lizzie spoke about at night, darkness enveloping the sky and coating the room, so all I can make out of my belongings are their hazy outlines and surfaces. The grand wood storage chest opposite my bed, filled with photographs and a homemade fingerprint kit - powdered chalk and corn starch, a paintbrush and tape - semi-precious stones, and other things I've collected over the years. Dozens of books fill the shelves on the left and right walls of my room, dozens of notebooks in my bedside tables, and framed pictures from years ago with me and my parents all together, out at parks or beaches or on holiday.

A walk-in wardrobe my parents insisted on upgrading to even though I don't really have a massive amount of clothes in the first place. Candles dotted around the room for some kind of atmosphere that isn't modern, but isn't dated either, the sharp but soft aroma of wax in the air when I read or write or whatever. My iPhone and laptop are in the drawer under my bed too, but I don't use my phone much - really, who am I gonna call, Ghostbusters? - and my laptop's useful for info or whatever project I'm working on.

Especially the one dad brought up the next morning.

"It was absolutely amazing," Mum rambles on as we sit down for breakfast, and she twists the core of an apple endlessly instead of eating it, Dad pushing around the full English on his plate carefully, wincing slightly when bean juice happens to slide under his toast. He neatly arranges his food as he does with his life, nothing clashing with the other, even though it's going to be eaten anyway, and as soon as you've finished your routine it's the next day, and time to start another one.

"I'm sure we got at least five new clients out of that evening," she continues, "the people there aren't... they aren't vague or anything, which is a relief. We can't really give people what they want without them actually knowing what that is. Sales are bound to-"

I tuned out, scoffing lightly to myself as I thought about the contrast between her favourite topic now and then less than ten years ago.

Why are you thinking about that? My thinking scoffs back at me. Like you're going to do anything about it.

Then my attention snaps back to the conversation, and I frown after only catching half of the sentence Dad speaks warily.

"Sorry, what?"

Dad sighs lightly, repeating, "I said - and I don't know for sure, could just be paranoid - that I thought someone was following us around."

My eyes harden to a focused stare, a habit of mine that always happens when I'm interested in something unusual, and Mum rolls her eyes dismissively.

"It was probably nothing, Bobbs. We were at a party, with quite a few people. They weren't following anyone, they probably just happened to be going the same way as us."

"I know, I know," Dad says quickly, nodding with an uncertain smile, "but... well, I don't know, this was different somehow. I could've sworn I recognised someone there, someone who wasn't a client, but I recognised anyway. But then they were gone when I'd looked away and turned back. And when we... um, when we walked...?"

Dad's voice wavers and cuts short, and he backs down under Mum's annoyed glare.

"For god's sake, you're being paranoid. There are more important things to worry about. We're professionals, not Watson and Holmes."

"Holmes and Watson, " I correct under my breath, then the topic shifts to work again, and I'm left with a soft frown on my face, deep in thought.

Dad? Paranoid? Right. Mum's the one who has to nudge him in the side because he tells his clients too much about his 'personal life'.

But who on earth would follow my parents? What would be the motive? For their fortune?

Grow up, my thoughts snap.

If it wasn't money...

And, Dad might be right in saying it was nothing, but there's nothing better going on where I live. Nothing remotely interesting.

So I start the case of Paranoia.