The Ricewood Murders

Epilogue

Under a glowing, beautiful moon, an untamed ocean roared against a black sand beach. The black beach cottage that towered next to the surf looked abandoned and untouched for weeks, but within its grimy windows, shadows moved.

The boy inside of the beach cottage was fighting tears. The smell of the dead was strong--the body of his best friend. Ymir Glass had been left here to rot, his blood pooled up and dried along the back patio, which stretched out over the murky water. The boy walked through the back door, stumbling slightly when the smell hit him.

No.

Ymir's face was stuck contorted with fear. He'd been shot in the head. The boy suppressed a sob.

From far down the beach, the boy heard many dogs howling --the sounds of the police coming, looking for Ymir. They would be here soon. And here he was, at the scene of the crime. There wasn't any evidence that he had done anything, but he knew that that wouldn't help him. He was already on the run from them, and this wouldn't help his case.

Shaking his head, the boy sighed heavily, struggling to regain his composure. He had been hearing reports for weeks that Ymir was missing, presumed dead, and that the police were looking for him to prove it. He didn’t want to believe it at first. But the searches hadn't stopped, and the boy had finally broken down and gone looking for him, too. If Ymir was dead, he knew that the beach cottage was one of the first places to look for him. After all, it was a private place.  It was perfect for a crime like this.

Half of it was in a portal. The other half, the half where Ymir had been killed, the half where the boy now cried and wiped away angry tears, was a completely different place--Earth.

The Glass family owned and maintained the cottage. And the boy had a strong feeling as to which particular Glass had been the one to take Ymir's life.

Adam.

The thought filled him with an uncontrollable anger. He'd known Adam as a kid. He'd always been stuck-up, entitled, overconfident. Of course he would take it upon himself to kill his cousin.

The thought made him crave revenge.

Gritting his teeth, the boy wiped his face of tears. He didn't have time for this. The sound of the dogs was growing louder. They were almost here.

Suddenly, he jumped. There was a creaking noise that came from almost directly behind him--in the doorway to the house, which was his only escape. The boy spun around in surprise. A figure stood there in the shadows, watching.

"Tom," the boy said flatly, recognizing the figure after a beat. "What are you doing here?"

"Stupid boy," Tom answered him, his pale skin waxy with sea salt and sweat in the dim, dusky light. "Why did you come here? You have risked the whole mission. And you are going to die."

"Go to hell," the boy laughed. "I don't care about the police. I can take care of myself." Tom shook his head, obviously at his wits end.

"It is high time I turned you in, you little twit. You have caused me more than enough trouble."

"You can certainly try, buddy." Taking a deep breath, the boy glanced back at the body of his friend one last time, a painful twist nagging in his heart, and then turned to go. Tom remained standing on the doorway, his face stormy. "Could you move?"

"No," Tom snarled.

"Is there a magic word?" The boy asked snarkily, rolling his eyes.

"I'm turning you in," Tom snapped. "You heard me the first time."

"Look, you have five seconds to move."

Tom took a step closer to the boy, poking a finger into his chest.
"And you know what, you can rot in jail for all that I care. You won't be missed." 

"Thanks. Move."

"No." The police were only a hundred feet away, closing in quickly. The boy tensed.

"Tom, I'm serious. Let me go." There was new urgency in his voice. Tom chuckled darkly, taking another step forward and looking at his former student. He was too close, and his foul breath caused the boy to wrinkle his nose.

Tom smirked. "I was never afraid of you."

The sound of the authorities was almost upon them. It filled the boy with an uncomfortable fear that pushed him to desperation. He reached down to something in his jacket pocket, glaring at Tom with a strange look in his eyes.

Meeting his gaze, the older man twitched suddenly, the cockiness in his expression crumbling into shock. Without another word, Tom collapsed onto his knees, spasming violently for a few seconds before landing heavily on his side upon the warped black deck, the life stolen from his eyes.

"That," the boy said delicately, "was your first mistake."