RoseBlood

Don't Have A Clue

It could be a trap. She wanted desperately to tell me something, and now I have to go find her. Or maybe she's trapped herself, knows something she shouldn't. Whatever it is, I need to find her. She's the biggest unsuspicious suspect, no matter how big-eyed and innocent she seems.

Elias pokes his head out the car window as I run up to it, his nose scrunching up in a grimace as he avoids the sun's glare, the rain slowing into a small drizzle, and Edith leans forwards in her seat to look at me.

"What's up?"

"Clarissa isn't here," I respond, as Emerson, Brunsley and Charlie catch up behind me. "I'm going over to hers to check if she's there, or if anyone's seen her. She hasn't shown up on the cameras, has she?"

Edith shakes her head, the iPad in her hands, clear squares imitating the movement and echoing the conversations going on in Falmer Court.

"No, I don't remember seeing her. Are you sure it's a good idea to go there?"

"I'll be going with her, Edith," Brusnley speaks up, pulling out his car keys. "My team are minutes away if I need them, and Doyle will be in the car just in case. Even so, Holly, you mustn't stay away from the funeral for too long. Everyone will be going to the garden for refreshments in twenty minutes or so, and it'll be odd to see the daughter of the deceased disappear so suddenly. Remember, the killer could still be in that barn."

"I know."

"Well, be careful, yeah?" Elias calls after us, as Brunsley unlocks his silver BMW, and I nod, Charlie getting in the front. Me and Emerson strap up in the back, and then we're whisked away from the tranquil scene of the funeral to streets that are closer and closer to my home.

My home...

Is it even mine anymore? Do I want it? They've probably left it to me, but after everything that's happened, it doesn't feel like a family home should.

It didn't before, though, did it?

The rain has stopped now, and faint, cool humidity is left in the air. The BMW rolls down Hough Crescent, stopping outside the fourth house along. The daisies in Clarissa's front yard are beaded with fresh raindrops, highlighting the frail white tones of the petals. The street is just as calm when the car doors thump shut in unison, Charlie Doyle giving Brunsley a nod as he stays in the car and watches out the window attentively. The curtains to her house are wide open yet again, and this whole trip feels like a strange reprise of when I first met her. But there's something different.

Howling? No, meowing?

Oh, of course. Clarissa had a fluffy white cat...

I frown, picking up the pace as I go to the front door, knuckles rapping against the wood briskly. The meowing is the only reply I get, and I try again, Emerson's dark eyes taking in the windows revealing empty, cosy rooms, and the quiet neighbourhood beyond them.

Brunsley steps in front of me, and I look up at him in slight annoyance.

"Clarissa Newman? It's Detective Joseph Brunsley. Open the door, please."

"Clarissa?" I try too, before crouching down at the letterbox and slipping my fingertips under the flap to lift it. "Clarissa, are you there? It's-"

The cat's tail flicks from near the door, and I watch with furrowed brows as another distressed meow sounds and the gentle pattering of paws reveals the sleek wooden flooring that lead to the stairs and living room.

Light brown flooring... with some kind of shadow cast over it.

A limp hand holding a fully blossomed red rose shows in the corner, freckled with crimson, thorns piercing the palm.

"Brunsley, open the door," I say, my voice raising shakily. "You need to open the door!"

I get back up on my feet, and Emerson looks at me in subtle alarm.

"Doyle has a search warrant," Brunsley says, waving at him from the car, and Charlie's quick to come out, looking at the door and then me.

"Is she-"

"She's lying on the floor with a bloody rose, alright?! That's all I can make out! Open it up!"

"I... well, backup-"

"We don't have time! She could be dying or something! I saw blood!"

A loud bang catches me off guard, and I whirl around to see Brunsley pushing himself against the door with his side.

"I know what I'm doing," he tells me between grunts and bangs, and I watch, the thick, wooden door splintering and straining little by little near the lock with each burst of force.

"Sir-" Charlie starts in shock.

"Doyle, call backup," is all Brunsley says, and pauses, lunging one final time at the door. It finally gives in, swinging open and crashing against the wall behind it indoors.

I take two hurried steps into the doorway, and stop so abruptly that Emerson bumps into me from behind.

Clarissa's once timid and shy expression is frozen in a look of tearful despair, her eyes staring emptily upwards, her body sprawled on the ground. Blood leaks from her head and is spattered around her, staining the dark clothes she must have picked out for the funeral. The rose stands out proudly amongst the mess that is Clarissa Newman, and a letter is left on her chest, sinister, curly writing adorning the plain paper.

Roses are red

You don't have a clue

You thought it was her

Didn't you?