RoseBlood

What We Do

"Bobby and Judith Cassia were found dead in their house's basement at three pm-"

"A minute past three," I can't help but mumble to myself, and Emerson purposefully ignores me.

"-By their daughter, you, after searching for them for how long?"

"They went missing at two twenty-seven," I tell him, "that's when I last saw them. When the cake was being cut. Then I went looking for them at two fifty-eight. I went upstairs, stupidly, and by the time I'd come back down, I could hear the Lesley Gore music from downstairs."

"You didn't find anything upstairs?" Edith asks, and I shake my head, still irritated with that mistake.

"The killer didn't go upstairs," I say. "They lured my parents down into the basement and snuck out either through the front door or the back. No one was paying attention to specifics, so it could have been either."

Emerson puts these notes into the iPad, looking up at me after he finishes. "Well, you found them early. Brunsley forwarded us the autopsy report on your parents yesterday, and we know that they must have been killed between two twenty-seven and just before three."

"So, a half an hour window," Edith sums up, nodding. "Okay."

"The music must have started from the beginning when the murderer set it up," I add, "and I remember writing down that I walked in on it when it was around forty seconds or so in. I only just missed them." I have to bite my lip to hold back the frustration, and Edith catches on, smiling and shaking her head.

"To be honest, if you'd caught them in the act, you could've died. Now we've got the chance to find them and understand everything."

Elias makes a sound that sounds like a scoff, and Emerson's dark gaze sweeps over to his brother, a brow raised.

"What?" Elias shrugs, pushing his chair away from the table a little with his legs. "Sure, yeah, let's stay positive, we've got a chance."

I frown at that, confused, and Edith does too. Emerson simply sighs.

"Elias, we are going to find this murderer. Do you understand?"

Elias glares at him, his jaw clenching. "Look, I want to catch them too. But it's been four years, Emerson. We didn't do it then. Now, all of a sudden, when something spookily similar happens, it's all just..."

His voice trails off, and he takes in Edith's expression, then mine. He relaxes slightly in defeat.

"Sorry, Holly," Elias mutters, standing up. "I'm not... good at this stuff."

And then he walks off, his hands in his hoodie pockets and his head bowed slightly, pushing open the doors and disappearing down the hall.

He's not good at this? It's what he does, isn't it?

Edith gives me an awkward smile. "I'm so sorry. Elias is just a bit more... sensitive?" She looks to Emerson for help.

"There was a case similar to this in the past," he briefly explains, glancing at the doors that Elias had walked out of a few moments ago. "It's remained unsolved, until now. It just means a lot to him, to us, that we succeed with every case, especially one like this."

I nod slowly, cursing the way his expression shields practically any hint of emotion other than its calm and collected gaze. "Alright."

"So, the song," Edith continues. "Forty seconds in..."

"Yeah, I heard the song when it was in the middle of its first chorus," I clarify, and Emerson's back to tapping busily. "It was skipping and scratching on the record player, but the player itself looked pretty old. I didn't even know we had one, but all our old stuff is down there. The basement is for storage and things like that."

"So, let's assume that the record player belonged to your parents," Emerson says, not looking up from the screen. "Because the killer wouldn't have had time to lug it in. It's too much of a risk, too much effort. But they knew it was there."

"I got the vinyl's cover as a present," I remember suddenly. "I thought it was weird when I got it. The wrapping paper was black, and a rose was drawn on it in red instead of a holly, you know?"

Edith nods in interest, Emerson still typing away. "No name or anything?"

"No. Just the vinyl cover inside, with no actual vinyl."

"So, the murderer was at your party at some point," Emerson deducts, finally pausing to look up at us. "They put it in the pile whilst everyone was distracted with each other, waiting for you to discover it when you unwrapped them all after the cake. Probably before they went to get the attention of your parents."

"I think forensics have the cover," Edith tells us, uncertain. "There won't be any fingerprints on it though, I suppose."

"No," Emerson agrees, "there won't be. The killer knows what they're doing. They're careful, they're precise."

"Really?" I question, my brows furrowing in thought. "If they're so careful and precise, why did they attack me like they did earlier, in my back garden? If that's not aggressive and wild, I don't know what is."

"Maybe they panicked," Edith suggests. "They must have caught onto the fact that we were coming this morning, and Brunsley had been coming and going for questions and information. They managed to get inside perfectly when they planted those notes that Brunsley forwarded to us before."

"I don't think they wanted Holly dead," Emerson says slowly, putting the iPad down as his eyes linger on the table thoughtfully. "They wanted her frightened. They attacked this morning because they wanted to warn her that they aren't leaving this alone, and they aren't afraid of us. She must have known that Mrs Hutton was upstairs, which supports my point of them being precise. They plan things intricately.

"The poetry is all very symbolic, very meaningful. So, of course, this whole ordeal is personal, and they've waited for Holly's eighteenth birthday to carry it all out."

I stare at Emerson for a long moment, taken aback by what he's come to. For once, I'm nearly lost for words. Everything he's said makes sense, as if he knows the RoseBlood Killer and what's in their mind.

I don't know whether I'm intrigued and like him, or I'm annoyed and resent him for reminding me of... well, me.

Emerson notices me staring, confusion and interest in my gaze mixed up into hopefully something as unreadable as his. He stares straight back at me, mildly expectant, and only looks away when Edith speaks up.

"I think we should focus on who you mentioned earlier, Holly," she says, and my gaze shifts to her. "Clarissa Newman, was it?"

I nod. "She didn't make it to the party, supposedly because of her migraine, like I've said. But all of this poetry and killing... I don't know, it seems to contrast with her pretty feeble and timid personality. I mean, sure, she could be putting on an act, but a couple of my parents' old friends told me they've known her for years, and she's always been like that."

"It's definitely something we need to look into," Emerson confirms. "Edith, when you go and get Holly's things, go and see if she's home. Make some sort of friendly conversation. You've got your way of doing that."

"Will do. I'll try sneaking in a few questions, but I don't know how easy that'll be."

"Just keep it subtle," Emerson tells her. "Be on your guard. They could be anywhere and anyone."

"I'm always on my guard," Edith nods with a smile. "It's what we do, isn't it? Holly, I can make a confident bet that you're better at this than I am."

I give her a half-smile. "Maybe this is what I do too."

Emerson stays quiet, and for a moment, I swear I see his deep brown eyes show a flicker of curiosity, some kind of faint admiration. But it's gone almost as soon as I think I see it, and the moment's gone.