the secrets of ocean shores - a paranormal murder mystery

Chapter 17

Chapter 17. Kella

Despite the multitude of classes I attended, my mind remained preoccupied with the pressing task at hand: the investigation of the many heinous murders. Only during my English class did I carve out time to organize and collect my thoughts and begin working on the many-paragraph deadly assignment before me. 

I started with the obvious clues, the signs. My parents dying. The blood on the letter. Seeing my parent's killer again. The deaths, and seeing their bodies at the pizza place. The day when I got hit by a car. The invisible ink on paper. Blood-ridden Sofia. The shootings, and the deaths.

the deaths

the deaths

the deaths

the crushing feeling

the feeling that would

never 

go away

breathe breathe breathe breathe

Going to juvenile detention. The tracker in my locker.

 Finding Natasha's diary- and the strangest part being the blood smeared on the last page, that I had just discovered the next day. 

And the killer that chased us in the woods.

My words, a neatly scrawled font, etched into the paper, seemed to stare back at me, urging me to scream, to shout, to do something. But what was there to do? There was a killer, a murderer. There were horrible people out there to do something bad. But there was nothing to do.

With that particularly happy thought lingering in my mind, I pulled out one more sheet of paper. It was a longer one, lengthily and cut perfectly sharply at the edges. I pulled out my quill pen again, and set pen to paper. In a practiced and perfect scrawl, I wrote Suspect List on the top of the page. 

Mr. Thatcher strolled by. He peered over my paper, tilting his glasses down so his thick eyelashes and neatly trimmed eyebrows were on full display. "What is your topic, Ms. Ravenwood?" He had a head full of thick dark hair, so wild that it often covered his sparkling eyes and petite ears. Fear coursed through my veins, and my hands shook with fear. A million questions surged through me- what if he didn't like what I was writing about?

"I'm writing about the murder." I flashed the paper at him, attempting to keep my tone flat. Use the Carolina method, Kella. Hide your emotions, act chill, and nobody will suspect anything. He nodded in mild interest. "I'll find some articles. You have talent as a writer, Ms. Ravenwood. Don't abuse it!" I sighed in a quiet relief. Finals were coming up, so this had to be good. 

I continued with my list, as though there had been no disruption whatsoever. I paused. Who did I suspect? Besides Johanna Porter, the people at Red Genie Pizza, and the murderer. An idea popped into my sleep-deprived mind. 

I raised my shaking arm, straight into the air with urgency. "Mr. Thatcher? Erm, Charlie?" He turned to quirk an eyebrow. "Yes, Miss?" He slid over to my desk, his black shoes effortlessly gliding across the rough carpeted surface, immune to any bumps or errors in the floor. It was at that moment where I took a second to admire the fancy room. It was something that, at that point, I took for granted, but it was truly beautiful, all golden arches and gothic peaks and stuff straight out of Hogwarts.

I gulped once more, black eyes glued to his tailored suit and glasses, avoiding the glances across the room, the popular girls and obnoxious boys alike snickering at Charlie's raised eyebrow. "May I interview people for my subject?"

"I don't see why not." He responded mildly, resuming typing on his computer. The stares and wide eyes flickered back to their computer, and I grabbed my paper and strode out of the room, desperate to get out of Bored-High-Schooler-Land and into somewhere interesting.