RoseBlood

Emotive Motives

When you're being toyed with like I am, it makes everything difficult and dangerous. The murderer could have killed me by now, without all the little threats and roses, but they haven't. They want me scared, want me paranoid and desperate, and then they'll end it all with a flourish of bloody petals.

But I'm not a paranoid and desperate person. And I'm really starting to go off roses.

I'm writing everything down in my casebook in my room, the notes and information starting to look like a very odd kind of journal as I record the timings of the music, the possible motives - probably something romantic, which fits right in with the style of how this has all been done - and how my dad wasn't the prestigious, workaholic, fairly average man I thought he was. Aware of what he was doing or not, he was a little too nice to the wrong person, and that cost him his life, as well as Mum's.

But I'm determined it won't cost me mine.

Lizzie comes home in the late afternoon, bringing home a DVD collection of Agatha Christie's Poirot and a bag of food shopping.

"Anyone else would be appalled at the idea of me bringing home a murder mystery series to watch this evening, but I know you," she says with a smile.

I smile back, a small sense of ease making me relax a little as I help her put everything away in the kitchen. I refuse to believe that Lizzie could be in any way responsible for my parent's death. I've studied her expressions, watched her work for my Mum and Dad, and she's nothing short of an honest, goodhearted woman. And, despite the situation, she's been more of a mum and dad to me than they were, ever since...

Ever since they chose work over you.

A few sharp knocks at the door cut through my thoughts, and I roll my eyes, already knowing who it's going to be.

"I'll get it," I tell Lizzie, going over to the front door and opening it. And sure enough, there's the head of the CID, Joseph Brunsley himself, his grey cloak ruffling in the breeze.

"Hi, Holly. How are you doing?"

"Well, I'm alive," I respond, standing aside to let him in. "Here for more questions?"

"Yes and no," Brunsley answers, nodding at Lizzie when he sees her, coming into the living room and sitting down. "I have a few developments on the case, and thought you might be interested."

"And you telling me is all good?" I ask, bemused, and he shrugs.

"I believe you have a right to know. See, there are several elements of this case that are very similar to a previous murder. So far, we haven't caught the killer, but it's clear now that there's a great possibility of that killer being the same one who murdered your parents."

I sit down in dad's armchair, my eyes fixed on Brunsley's naturally unreadable expression.

"What was the previous murder?"

"Well, there was a man who I was friends with, a private detective of sorts, who met a woman with an apparent need for guidance, a little childish and eager, but with a severe lack of trust in people. I don't know all the details, and I don't think she even told him her name."

"If he was a detective-" I start, but Brunsley shakes his head.

"I know. You would have thought he'd be cautious and suspicious of her. But apparently not. I suppose it was just one of those things. Anyway, it was nothing serious, nothing long-term. See, he mentioned her love for '60s music and poetry, which are two things that connect with this case. And the thing is, he started noticing some of her unusual traits worsening.

"The things she said when any other woman showed an interest in him, or sometimes just in general, were a little too realistic and violent for him to overlook. She was obsessed, unhealthily so, but I think he saw her as an unguided, sensitive, sweet woman who was just lost and needed his help. But she was very clever, in her own way, and very careful.