Violet and Deanna

Jones

The policeman had never seen an odder crime scene. A local woman, brutally murdered in her home, with every door and window still locked.

The street surrounding the large pale yellow Victorian was completely blocked off by police cars, and the woman's two teenage daughters sat huddled together by an ambulance. 'What a horrible thing,' the policeman thought, 'to find your own mother torn apart on your floor and have to call the police yourself.'

The call had been a short and panicked one. A girls voice had stated there was something terribly wrong had happened, given the address, and then hung up, despite the pleading of the operator not to hang up. The first responders had rushed onto the scene to find the front door flung wide open and the girls huddled against the pink climbing roses on the side of the front porch. They had rushed over to the girls, but before they could even ask a question, the blonde had wordlessly pointed to the open door while slowly patting her twin's shaking shoulders. The policeman would never forget the horrifying image that had met his eyes.

A thin veil of blood coated nearly every surface of the kitchen, and some kind of devil-worship pentagram had been drawn with chalk on the floor. The police hadn't blamed the brown-haired twin for crying uncontrollably; he had never seen anything so horrible in all his life. He'd heard the other cops in his station talk about some frightening crime scenes, but since this was only his first year, he still hadn't seen anything truly horrible. He would have trouble sleeping tonight.

The policeman shook those thoughts out of his head and headed over to the two girls to ask some questions. They were sitting together, a blanket across both their shoulders. The blonde was looking at the house thoughtfully, her eyes rimmed with red. The brunette's head was resting on her twin's shoulders, nonstop tears leaving glittering trails down her cheeks. Her face was half hidden in a dripping tissue. The policeman cleared his throat to let them know he was there and pulled out a thin notepad. The blonde girl raised her eyes from the yellow Victorian and glared at him.

"What could you possibly want?" she demanded flatly. He squirmed a bit under her gaze; the amount of venom in her glare was more than some of the serial killers he had interviewed. He penciled that thought down in his pad and plowed on, even though everything in the blonde girl's look was telling him to throw his pad and pencil high into the air and run for the hills.

"Um I-I'm here to ask some questions. Names?" he asked. Always start with familiar questions. He needed to concentrate on his training, not the terrifying look the scary one was giving him. He repressed a shiver. 

"Deanna and Violet Winchester. Why can't you just leave us alone? We just found our dead mother. In pieces," the blonde girl ground out through her teeth, her eyes taking on a slightly glassy sheen. The crying twin gave a little squeak of surprise and buried her face further in her tissue with another sob. The policeman was feeling distinctly uncomfortable now, but he continued on.

"I notice you don't share your mother's last name. Were you adopted or foster children?" the policeman asked. The brown haired girl's head slowly rose from her tissues, tears dripping down her cheeks and off her chin. Her green eyes gleamed with intense hatred as she locked them onto the policeman's.

"Juliette Smith was our biological mother tu putain de cul," she whispered.

"I-I-I I-I'm so sorry. I-What happened? Just tell me what happened and I'll be out of your hair," he stammered.

"We came home from school, parked Connor, that's our car, and tried to open the door. It was locked. We opened the door, and went into the kitchen. We found our mother and that symbol on the floor. We left the house and Violet called 911. We waited for you to show. Get the hell out of the way. We're leaving now," the bond snarled. She pulled her twin to her feet and the two of them started to walk to a black car in the driveway. The policeman didn't have the strength to tell them that this was prohibited. They walked to the car, talking so quietly to one another that the policeman couldn't hear them. The blonde started the car, and they pulled away from the driveway.

"Jones!"

The policeman turned away from the speeding car and faced Antony Edwards, his partner. Antony glared at Jones.

"Did you just let the top two suspects go?" Antony demanded, and Jones felt the color leach from his face.

"Suspects?" he asked. Antony rolled his eyes; the ends of his mustache fluttered as his irritated sigh blew out of his nose. 

"Yes. Suspects. Those two girls are the only ones who could have possibly done this. By God, Jones, at the rate you're going, you're not only getting kicked to desk duty, but kicked off of the force," Antony grumbled. Any blood that was left in Jones face drained from his face. Antony glared at him.

"Did you even tell them they weren't allowed to leave?"

Jones said nothing.

Antony grabbed him by the front of his uniform and dragged him forwards.

"Come on, Jones. We're going to go see the captain. Let's go see if you still have a job after this, shall we?" Antony said.

Somehow, Jones knew he would be unemployed after speaking to the captain. He also knew that Antony Edwards, his partner of exactly one week, wouldn't be too upset with his termination.