RoseBlood

Life Goes On

I'm not paranoid, like my father was, and to be fair, it isn't paranoia if someone's actually out to get you. But, as Brunsley makes tea and Lizzie comes rushing over and the three of us talk things through to let her know what's happening, it's like there are unfriendly eyes following me wherever I go. I can't relate to the phrase of the hairs on the back of my neck standing up, and it's not like a sixth sense. It's nothing like that. It's simply the feeling of someone, someone I know well by now without even being able to name them, watching me, watching me well.

Brunsley leaves after a couple of hours of us having a conversation that veers off of the case and 'going back to normal' to the old mystery and suspense films and series that Lizzie buys and watches with me, both of them trying and failing to not talk about murder mysteries or whodunnits. We chat about our favourite classics, and then his phone buzzes and he gets up from the chair, reluctantly going to leave and update his team. Lizzie has to leave afterwards too. It's not like she wouldn't stay all night, and for as long as she could, if I let her. But I can't. The killer won't strike with her here, and the only reason they did before in the garden was to frighten me before they disappeared, and Lizzie was none the wiser anyway.

I show them out of my house in the most natural way possible, giving Lizzie a reassuring hug, and acknowledging more neighbours who have noticed my return before I go back inside. It's not like I can kick them out and wait at the door with my phone ready to ring for help, waiting for the inevitable. As much as it kills me, I have to keep going on. There's nothing else to do.

Life goes on.

That really sounds stupid given where I am and what I'm facing, but it is what it is. Pretending like everything's normal while I try to stay looking jumpy and scared makes me feel like some vulnerable, clueless idiot, but to everyone else, it's what to be expected. Those dark eyes are watching me tidy up the house a bit, glancing out of windows warily, going to my room to unpack but lingering at my parents' bedroom door. I can't face looking through their old things now, and it feels wrong to sleep in there, not a comfort, so I go to bed early.

I loathe every minute of this. It's painfully boring. Normal things bore me.

And yet, there's that bubbling anticipation inside; no matter how annoying it is to act like anyone usually would after such a tragic death, I know what I'm doing, and I'm as ready as I can be for the killer to come.

The day goes by painfully slowly, and after I update a worried-sounding Mia, who calls later in the afternoon, there's nothing much to do except watch the old shows Lizzie had bought me before, order takeout food, since basically everything in the fridge had to be thrown away because they were out of date, I just... wait.

I can't concentrate on Miss Marple as the episodes play one after the other on TV, and sit staring at my phone screen instead, tapping it impatiently when it goes dark. Emerson's forwarded me the live video feed from the cameras that are wonderfully out of sight, the screen split into three, showing me a perfectly still view of the garden, basement and entrance. My staring does nothing to change the images, obviously.

When I do go to bed, ridiculously earlier than usual, there's no way I can sleep. My phone stays on charge and on the live feed while I lay on my side, scowling at it silently, then flinching when it suddenly starts ringing, a new number on the ID screen.

I sit up slowly, the sheets shifting as I pick up the phone and answer it. There's a beat of still silence when the ringtone stops short, and I tap on the loudspeaker.

"Who is it?"

"It's alright. It's Emerson, Holly."

"Oh." I sigh, carrying on the call as I add the number to my contacts, relaxing back into the pillows. "Hi, Emerson. Are you watching the thrilling live feed from the car, too?"

"No, no. Elias is. We've worked out a sort of shift schedule, but Elias refuses to leave the scene. He's parked down the road a bit, near Clarissa's house. Won't leave. Wants to look the killer in the eye and be the first on the scene after you call."

I smile slightly at that, brows raising. "Yeah. I get it. He wants this to end properly. So do I."

"And so do I," Emerson says. "What are you doing now?"

"Well, after checking the house out and watching the cameras for the last three hours, I'm turning in early, and then getting up at around midnight to look around the house again. I've set an alarm. I might be able to force myself to cry to make things more convincing. I can't sleep properly anyway, even if I wanted to."

"Try," Emerson tells me, "we've got eyes on the cameras, and we can communicate with each other easily whenever we need to. I'll be going to join Elias later tomorrow, I think, and we'll be calling you every day."

"Well, send me Elias and Edith's numbers, so I don't suspect anything," I reply. "Ugh, me acting like any vulnerable victim is the worst performance I've ever had to give, and it better be worth it."

"Yeah." Emerson's quiet for a while, and then sighs, speaking up again. "All right. I was just, um, checking in. Try and get some sleep, okay? At least one of us is watching the cameras at all times, not including Brunsley and his team. It's a little strange for us, for Edith, not having you down the hall anymore."

"Right," I smile, "she'll get used to it, I suppose."

"Mm. Okay. Well, night then, Holly."

"Oh-" I start, sitting up, and Emerson pauses from the other side, while I frown at myself in exasperation, though it doesn't stop me from going on when he prompts me to.

"What is it?"

"You could... well... stay on the phone. Nothing personal," I add quickly, "but it's boring for me here, and I'm betting there's nothing exciting going on at yours either. And it's too quiet. It's weird, not having the background noise from my parents, if you know what you mean."

"I do," he agrees after a second, his voice seeming a little softer from the phone now. "I do. It's okay, I'll stay on the phone. Just to talk, or...?"

"Not necessarily," I say, putting my phone back down on my bedside table and settling under the sheets. "Just stay on the line. Please."

The house does feel a lot more ominous without my parents' presence, everything horribly out of place, but somehow, Emerson Tyrel being on the end of the line, and his brother just down the street, makes things feel a bit more stable.

I hear a short, muffled breath from Emerson, as if he's scoffing, but before I say anything he does, and it makes me shut up completely. That same uncomfortably hot and odd feeling blossoms as I close my mouth, looking away from the phone and down at the sheets.

"I'll stay on the line, Holly," he murmurs, the sound of him moving on his seat or in his room following as he settles down with me, as if we're not in completely different places. "Whatever you like."

Whatever you like...

I roll my eyes at myself and roll over so I'm staring at the ceiling, the distant sounds of Emerson's breathing and the strange silence held in my house somehow lulling me to sleep, until my alarm screeches at me and interrupts the call at half past midnight.

I groan, making myself get out of bed and turn the phone torch on. Back to innocent victim Holly Cassia.