It has been three days since Cerise had moved into my house.
She was under house arrest without her knowing that. Preston, a therapist our whole unit worked closely with, and a specialist in criminal psychology and trauma, had suggested letting Cerise settle in after the death of Edward.
"From the recording of the interrogation, she seems unravelled by what she witnessed. By her own actions. Because she was born into a criminal mob and perhaps saw such scenes daily, she grew insensitive towards it over time. Morals and guilt don't have the same meanings to her or anyone whose upbringing is within a crime organization. They never witnessed anything else. It was their reality. We need to analyze her closer to determine whether she's truly insensitive and capable of killing or if it was an act of self-defence, a taste of freedom for her. If she spirals.
If you let her settle in for a couple of days, you'll allow her to recover from the event. She was put into a black box. Brushing such a torture method out this easily is deeply concerning about her mental health. Let her recover and recall the event in her mind. She'll remember additional information that she may have overlooked. Or, she'll begin to panic, her worries taking over and she'll automatically spill more information. Either way, it's a strategy to consider. Two days and then I'll talk with her to see how she responds to the murder. To her faked freedom and abandonment of the White Pearl"
It felt wrong to fake her freedom and leave her bored on purpose so she had no other choice to retrieve into her mind. There was a lot of work going on at the office with the results of her clothing, the explosions and the murder. If there wouldn't be someone waiting for me at home, I'd push 12-hour or even 16-hour shifts at work. Napping at the small couch era. Instead, I attended the important meetings and worked the rest from the small office room in the attic. Cerise had found comfort in the children's books I had kept after all these years. She was holding the books like they were her own and forgot the time and day around her while reading.
Today, she had cooked for the two of us lunch when I arrived back home at 2. Preston was going to visit us at 3.
After we had returned from shopping on Monday, she had retrieved into the room for the rest of the day. Such as yesterday, she had stuck to the book in her hands in the guest room. Except for breakfast or dinner when we cooked together and did the dishes.
Today she was either in a better mood or was starting to get bored. Anxious. There was a faint smell of cleaning products lingering in the air.
I probably should have told her that she did not need not to clean anything. To rest. As Greenaway would argue her spending time on cleaning would suggest she's starting to get rid of any possible evidence. But I couldn't. I didn't want to cage her in like a bird and then clip away her wings to prevent her from navigating inside the cage. I did not want to tell her what she was allowed to do or not.
"Are you hungry? I hope you don't mind that I did some of the chores while you were gone. I grew a bit bored..", she greeted me with a smile in the kitchen earlier, wearing an apron while she was frying chicken. She looked oddly overjoyed. Either the good or the bad way.
"Did you have a good day?", I asked her as I walked closer to inspect her facial expressions. "Hmm, so far so good", she replied before she looked back to the pan on the stove, flipping the chicken stripe. "Good...", I hummed, "a trusted therapist is coming later. As part of the investigation", I then dropped the bomb. Cerise halted her movements, freezing in her spot. "... to talk to me?", she asked carefully. "Yes. Preston is a friend of mine and is our mental health counsellor as well. For check-ins and first help. I suggested him to the unit to be the therapist to talk to. I trust him. So you can trust him too".
Cerise studied my face for an agonizing amount of time.
"Do I have to tell him everything?", her voice came out calm but as quiet as a whisper.
"Only what you are comfortable talking about. No one will pressure you for anything".
It was both a lie and the truth.
"Nice to meet you, Isabelle. You can call me Preston. I'm a friend of Chris", Preston introduced himself with a smile, sitting on the reading chair, across from Cerise. "Nice to meet you too, Preston", she mirrored his smile politely, her hands folded in her lap. She looked concerningly calm compared to her reaction when I told her about a therapy session an hour ago. "I'll leave the two of you alone then. Let me know if you need anything", I gave them two a nod before exiting the living room, closing the door behind me.
I wasn't in the room next to them but my mind swirled all around what Cerise might have to say to Preston. If she was alright talking about things that have haunted her in the past. If she was retrieving into her mind while confronting her traumas. If she just silently sat there while Preston was testing the waters. We had worked together with a lot of psychologists and therapists in the past but Preston was the only one I fully trusted. Not just because of our long friendship but because he knew how to listen and reply in words you wanted to hear along with giving you the reply that you needed to hear.
Pacing up at down in my office was no help, distraction overcame me within minutes. My brain mind was lingering in front of the living room door. With a sigh, I slammed the laptop close, rubbing my eyes in frustration. The case was growing more and more confusing. There haven't been any new murders. Except for the death of Edward by Cerise's hand. There was no trace of the leader, King.
When my gaze flickered through the room, it landed on the small keyboard in the corner. It was the keyboard I used to practice on in my room back as a kid. Ever since I had moved into the house, I occasionally played on the piano that was in the living room. Fulfilling a dream of mine to own and decorate my home with a masterpiece of a piano.
With my recent workload, it had been some weeks since I had set down to play. It used to relieve me from my thoughts and stress but I never thought of it as of late. Pushing my chair over, I allowed my fingers to glide over the dusted keys. Running my hand over the whole keyboard to lift the dust layer, I turned it on before testing the C-Note.
Not bad. It hadn't been used in years but the tuning seemed okay. My fingers stretched before gripping onto the notes like a lifevest to survive after a shipwreck. And I played. And I sang.
"I hate to admit...
