DECEMBER 18TH, 2009:
Olivia had woken up with determination, the sobbing of her cries no longer drawing from her lips. The minute she opened her eyes a few hours ago, around 8:00 AM, way too early than her usual time, she already knew what her day's agenda was going to contain.
Last night she fell asleep on the carpeted floor of her room, beside her bed, twisting and turning from a nightmare she couldn't remember. She kept waking up at the end of each hour since 10 o'clock last night. So, the minute she glanced at the clock to see the time had displayed, 8:37 AM, she groaned, and forced herself off the floor.
She hadn't placed herself on her bed, because her legs felt like sticks, every time she attempted to walk they would freeze up, and give the sensational illusion that she was about to collapse. And when she laid against the carpet, only one thing was herding inside her thoughts: Raphael Baxter. The name Raphael Baxter. Ginger man, Raphael Baxter, Alicia Sparks.
Her curly mangled mess swooshed in front of her face, and she drew her arms closer to her breasts and chest–providing warmth as she stood inside a bubble of unimaginable coldness. An old, run-down house with a singular cracked window to the left of the disheveled front door glared approximately ten feet in front of Olivia.
She took in a heavy breath, breathing out and watching as condensation formed into a cloud of mist, rushing into the atmosphere. The house that stood was not any random place, but Raphael Baxter's home.
Marge had spilled the identity of the woman that recommended the idea of Raphael Baxter being a child predator, and Olivia immediately took action. The lady was named Nancy Kennedy, and Olivia found her where her natural habitat and many other old women were–The Bingo Hall.
"Where do I find her?"
"Bingo. That's where she is all day everyday," Marge snickered, placing a cigarette between her lips, lighting the tip of it.
"Nancy? Nancy Kennedy? Anyone?" Olivia called out, scouting the building with her neck, taking in every old face she saw. They all shot their eyes to her, but none of them looked as if they knew what she was saying–they all ignored her, processing the name and turning their heads back onto their bingo cards.
As she called out the name one last time, an old lady from the very far back of the building, cuddled in the corner, her hands resting on the cheap-white foldable table, lifted her head towards Olivia's direction. They both made direct eye contact, and Olivia mouthed the word, "Nancy?"
The lady nodded, the cracks in her shriveled lips twisting. Olivia made her way towards her, a pen and paper in hand. If Nancy was willing to share any information about Baxter, Olivia would need to write it down–she didn't have a very wise memory.
"My name's Olivia Monroe, and I–"
"I know who ya' are. Marge's girl, right?" Olivia lifted her eyebrows in amusement, excited that she was able to save even a sliver of time for introductions.
"Yes, I wanted to talk to you."
"God, about what?" She grimaced, slithering her arms to her chest, hugging herself. Olivia rolled her eyes subtly, perterred by her unnecessary attitude. What a sad woman.
"Raphael–B-Baxter?" Nancy's eyes widened, and she repositioned herself straight in her chair, no longer on the verge of slipping out under the table.
"What about him?"
"Not a lot, Marge told me most of it–but can you do me a quick favor?" Nancy raised an eyebrow, a suspicious curiosity being showcased to Olivia. "And what's that?" She asked, despairingly amused.
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