The London Murder

Chapter IV

The Silver Swan glitters in the London lights.

Its windows are dark and when I try its door, I find it locked.

"What are we doing back here?" Detective King asks, shivering in the cold night air.

I retrieve a kirby grip from my hair and start picking the lock. He blinks, realizing what I'm doing.

"Woah, wait," –he grabs my arm. "We're not criminals."

I shake him off. "Relax, I'm just going to check something."

Although it's inky black outside, I can still make out the intensity of his amber eyes. "Detective Adams, please reconsider–"

The door swings open with a satisfying click and I march inside. Detective King flicks on the light switch behind me, revealing a dimly lit room filled with all sorts of alcoholic beverages. To the far side rests the glasses and serving counter, while the chairs and tables are scattered about like forest trees.

Thank the sky above, but it's empty. Not a worker or drunk in sight.

"Perfect, let's find the back room."

Detective King scrambles to keep up with me as I fly through the place, scanning for a back door.
"Are you sure–"

"Yes, I'm sure," I snap back. "Help me look– Nevermind, I found it!"

Once I enter the back room, I find the camera system immediately. Detective King stands off to the side as I work, not entirely interfering, but not helping either. It takes me a moment to pull up the footage from last night. Right when I'm about to press play, the door bangs open.

My heart explodes and I whirl around, only to find my parents staring back at me. Their expressions are harrowed and Mother's eyes dart as she takes in the scene.

"Rita—step away from the cameras." Although her voice is cool, and collected, there's a hint of panic peeping through. She doesn't want me here, that much is certain.

My eyes narrow into slits and a dark cloud settles in my stomach. "Mother, Father, you have some explaining to do."

Father steps forward, all soft music and light notes, "Rita, dear, we'll explain, just first we need you to–"

"No."

His jaw twitches. "Excuse me?"

"No," I repeat. "I won't be your puppet. Not again–"

"Enough of this nonsense." Mother stalks forward. She grabs my arm, hard enough to bruise it. "We're going home right now, young lady–"

I elbow her in the rib cage. Pain shoots through my bones and I lunge for the play button. My fingers barely graze it, but it's enough.

The video flickers on and finally, finally, I will see the truth–

No, no, no, no.

The world shoots out of focus as I watch, helpless. There August is, stalking out of the pub. But he's not alone, no. There's a woman there too. The camera is tilted away, so her face is veiled by shadows. As they wake toward the street light, mouths flying and hands cracking, all I can see is the woman's blood-red hair and the way her ring glitters on her pinky finger, the titanium crackling into liquid ash on her pearl-white skin.

I glance down at my own pinky finger, so pale it's almost translucent. There it is, that same ring made of the same titanium metal, a smoky black that sets the night on fire.