RoseBlood

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I can barely sleep at all when we finally stop working and go off to our rooms for the night. The rest of the day had been spent on the RoseBlood Killer; Emerson watching the footage from the hidden cameras at the funeral, Edith researching love letters and poetry and deeper meanings behind them, Elias trying to scrape up an image of who the murderer might be with me. We didn't need to recreate the crime. We didn't need to go back to what we knew. Because we already have everything figured out.

So who is it?!

I glare weakly at the ceiling as I lay in bed, like it'll give me the answer, one or two syllables that make up a name, any name. Rose, maybe, or a fancy, traditional female name. It's most likely nothing like I have in my head, something deceptively basic and boring. But I'll hate that name when I know it, and I'll hate hearing it again for the rest of my life.

That's if you hear it.

With a huff, I snatch my phone from the bedside table, bold numbers displaying the time. Just past four in the morning. Have I really been dozing in and out of a restless sleep for so long?

There's nothing new on my notifications. I'm not big on social media, and the only messages really I get are from Mia, or Lizzie. I've got nothing to update them on. I'm just missing the last piece to the puzzle, the most important piece, and they won't know. They knows as much as I do. We're all stumped.

And I hate it.

Giving up, I kick off the sheets and tug on a hoodie, wiping loose strands of hair away from my face when I put the hood up. I pause for a moment, my fingers grazing my neck, and I prod lightly at the bruise. It doesn't throb nearly as much as it used to now, but I still know that there's a faded, forced colour still lingering there on my skin, and grit my teeth at the memory of bloodguilty hands squeezing relentlessly, determinedly. I won't let those hands go anywhere near me again. I won't.

The Tyrels' home is dark and quiet as I push the bedroom door open and pad out into the hallway. I don't know where I'm going, but I know I need to clear my head somehow, and come up with an idea. A final idea. One that'll close this case for good, and one where I don't end up in a body bag.

I end up wandering downstairs, taking in the deep wood and vintage pieces all around the house as I go. Where could the killer be living? Right out in the open, in a normal house or apartment? Maybe even on own my street? Or they could be hidden away in a hotel room or something, lurking nearby. They don't know where I'm staying, I'm sure of it, but we both know that I can't hide for long. As soon as I have to go back to my house - and I will have to at some point, to sort things out - they'll pounce.

I frown to myself, pacing the kitchen, and eventually sit at the counter, all appliances sleeping with the rest of the house.

Or so I thought.

Gentle footsteps make their way downstairs, and I look over my shoulder in awareness as a figure comes down. I hold their dark, searching gaze, then turn back around, distracted by my thoughts. It's Emerson.

"Couldn't sleep either, then?" he questions quietly, and I shake my head, fiddling with the chocolate brown sleeves of my hoodie. "You're thinking too hard, Holly."

"Someone has to," I mutter, fingertips rubbing against the fabric.

Emerson hums, taking a seat next to me. I can feel his gaze examining my face, looking for clues to the chaos that's going on in my head. I finally raise my brows, meeting his eyes expectantly.

"Can I help you?"

He blinks, tearing his gaze away as he looks down in slight amusement at the counter's surface. "You're good at this. That's all."