The wanted murderer L.S.

Special Interest.

The small cottage among a cluster of many others had light behind the windows. It was quiet in there, besides the crackling of a fire in the fireplace, the purr of a ginger kitten being stroked, the pages of a book turning occasionally, and the slow drip, drip, drip of blood pattering onto the tiles.

The blood came from a carving knife, hanging on the wall among a row of many others. All were dented and worn from years of use, and none had touched a single piece of food from the point of their creation.

The murderer with Raspberry Rose curls sat in the living room, feet up on the coffee table and kitten in his lap. He drank from a glass of crimson wine, and turned the pages to The Importance of being Ernest as if he hadn't read it a thousand times already. In his childhood, he'd spend hours in the little cushion fort he'd built in his bedroom, looking through novel after novel until his mother couldn't find a single book anywhere that her son hadn't read.

As Harry was about to turn the page, a knock rattled the front door. He waited, unmoving. There was a rustling outside, quiet enough for Harry to barely hear, but loud enough for it to make him sit up and move the cat from his lap to the chair. He walked to the living room doorway, watching the front door carefully. He flipped the knife in his hand so that it faced backwards.

The rustle came again, then another knock, much quieter than the last.

Harry walked up to the door, and heard a sneeze come from the other side.

He sighed and opened the door, looking down at Louis who was sitting on his bike-rosy cheeks, hair flying everywhere-relieved that his long journey hadn't been for nothing.

Harry put the knife on the nearest tabletop. He leant out of the doorway, scanning the road, then looked down to the bicycle,
"Don't tell me you came all of this way on that?"
"I came here on the way home from picking up some video games. Well, it's not really on the way home. Also, I told my family that I'm staying at a friend's house."
Harry hummed, "You've got stamina; it's not the first time I've noticed. You better come in."

Louis got off his bike and leant it against the wall. He followed Harry into the living room, watching him hang the knife back up and wondering whose blood was on the dripping one.
He was gestured over to the sofa, which he sat on, and then clapped his hands excitedly when the kitten emerged from behind it. The cat crawled over Louis' shoulders, down his knitted jumper, and into his lap.

"Ginger!" Louis shouted, rocking back and forth so much that the sofa creaked, "Aren't you lovely!
Isn't she lovely?!"

Harry, who was making tea in the corner, nodded. He still seemed so very unsure of himself, and that made Louis unsure as well.

"Your sister-" Louis said, cracking his knuckles,
"She's very rude."
"Mn. I know. It's not her fault."
"Why is she rude? You're not rude."
"She didn't learn from me; she learnt that language from the other one who lived with us. The boy.
Gemma and I don't see each other that often."
"Oh." Louis said, sitting cross-legged on the sofa.
"Why not?"
"She's a runaway. Likes to go places for months on end. Each time I see her, I wonder if it's the last."
"That's sad."

Harry looked at Louis, dropping the teabag in the cup, "That's an outcome. Not everyone gets a happy ending."

"Oh.. Well, you have Ginger. That's a little happiness." Louis said, lifting the kitten up to his face and smiling. With such big blue eyes, they truly did look like two peas in a pod.

Harry put the cups of tea on the table and took the kitten, holding it in one hand.

"The cat's not mine."
"She lives your house."
"I know."
"And you feed her."
"Yes."
"And she follows you everywhere."
"Yes."
"So she's your cat."
No! She'll leave, you'll see. She'll be out that door as soon as she's an adult, and will never come back."