RoseBlood

Whodunnit

It can't be her, can it?

It was as if I could see the whole closure of this case unfurl before me; playing my part and waiting vulnerably at home, where the killer would spot me desperately trying to settle back into some routine, and pounce as soon as I found that false sense of security. The RoseBlood Killer, I was sure, was a ghost from my parents' past, someone I'd only met once or twice, if that, in the past. No one close to me. Not Lizzie, not Mia, not anyone who came to the party that came to the funeral. It had been confirmed that Hayley was away with family, and Clarissa...

Well, Clarissa was Clarissa. Timid, big soft eyes, pale clothes and a little fluffy cat for company at home. Someone who could have easily taken my dad's too-kind nature to heart, and the reminder of his family being like a stab in the heart. But could she have really planned all of this so elaborately? The roses, the poetry, the whole thing, and then actually ended up killing herself to make me kill myself inside? Was that really who Clarissa Newman was? A seemingly sweet and innocent girl, but in reality, a twisted, delusional, obsessive murderer?

When I'd looked in her eyes before, read her expression, I saw nothing but concern and anxiousness and uncertainty. I can't doubt what I do best now, can I? And if the way Clarissa acted was simply a well-acted front, does that mean that hidden in her home somewhere is that poetry book?

You have to go there and look for it. That could prove it all. Unless she threw it away or hid it somewhere else.

I glare at the wall opposite me, fidgeting on the spot for a while as my thoughts run away with me. The neutral whiteness of the wall fades away, and I see Clarissa's face as she speaks to me on the phone, the day before her death, so hesitantly, so worriedly. I see her expression mimicking the tone I received on the other end, and as she puts the phone down, she...

What? Smiles that self-satisfied, dark smile deceivers have when they've got someone fooled? I know exactly the look I'm talking about, but even now, after Emerson's revelation, I just can't see her doing it. I can't, but she could have. If she didn't, it's back to me playing this stupid game of watch and wait, where this mysterious killer bides their time and attacks at the precise moment I let my guard down. Unless they never do.

So what do I do now? Carry on with it all, like Emerson said, and wait for us to have a proper talk about it later on? Act like I'm still being targeted when I might be the person targeting myself, like the RoseBlood Killer wanted? How am I supposed to sneak over to Clarissa's house without the killer noticing, the door locked and secured now after being broken down by the police? What will I do if I look through everything of hers, only to find no book, no letters, no clues, nothing?

Who's doing this to me? Who's done this?!

Don't I get to look them straight in the eye as they're being dragged away by Brunsley, where the case is drawn to a close, and Daniel and Mum and Dad can rest peacefully after justice has been done? It's infuriating now, how I can see this ending so clearly, as if I'm living it, until I have to blink, only to see an unchanged plain wall and the faint sounds of water running as Hayley washes up the cups obliviously from the kitchen.

I've grown to hate this. Absolutely hate it. I can't be sure of anything, and I almost always am. I have thousands of questions that haven't been answered, and only raise more when I think about them. The curtains have been pulled away from the windows to reveal me at every moment of the day, where I do nothing but wander around the house, try to focus on a book or sort through things without focusing too much, and wander around some more. I want to catch the killer, and I want to catch them now. I don't want it to be Clarissa. I'm waiting for the vaguely familiar face from my parents' past to show up with a dangerous, mad glint in their eyes as they tell me everything and watch me take it all in, before they try to kill me. And, just in time, I don't die, because there are cameras, the Tyrels, and Brunsley, and just like that, we've got the RoseBlood Killer where we want them instead of the other way around. Playing my game instead of their own.

I want to share that look, that knowing look with a hundred emotions combined to create a silent, contemptuous glare, and that's all we're left with as the murderer is carted off to jail, and that's the end of it. I don't know or care about what happens after. I just want that moment. I want those answers.

But with Clarissa dead and me in my position, it won't happen until it's too late. Or, worst of all, it won't happen period, and I'll have to live the rest of my days with those unanswered questions that'll linger in my head like a poison until I die somehow. Maybe less dramatically than my parents'. Or just how the killer saw it themself.

I grit my teeth, waiting for my thoughts to tell me to pull myself together and stop overthinking, taking things one step at a time. For me to tell myself what to do next. But I'm just met with quiet, and a gentle clatter as a cup is placed on the surface beside the sink from the other room.

I loosen my grip on the suitcase's handle, and suck in my lips, keeping everything in my head yet again, as I roll it towards the door, the zip undone a little with all the luggage pushing at its seams.

My eyes linger on it thoughtfully, boredly, and I crane my neck in the direction of the kitchen, where Hayley's still busying herself with the dishes. I look back at the suitcase, scoffing at myself under my breath.

Wouldn't hurt to take a peek. I am a detective, after all.