Creation

Red

This chapter is an entry for the Midsummer Murders Contest by Crime.

"So what about September 19th and 20th? Look at my café—less crowded. And these warning Instagram posts about defense—"

"Red Killing Hood's Judgement Day," I said, rubbing my palms to shoo the chills running on it. "He killed someone at the opera last night, here at London. You know his pattern. There will be one this noon."

"Rubbish." Axel loosens the apron tied around his neck, allowing more breeze to cool his scrunched face.

Deciding it's not the correct topic to pursue, I lifted my gaze and let it wander. More visitors enter the café we're at, which belongs to Axel's dad and where he works as a supervisor at.

Today we're lucky to book a spot on the terrace, under the mushroom-like umbrellas. With a couple each of avocado coffees, fettuccine carbonara, and mousses with a cherry on top.

Yet, Red Killing Hood's still out there, lurking for a location to promote at tomorrow's newspaper's headline.

While I'm chewing bits of my mousse, Axel's ruffling through his messy locks, skimming over my phone's screen.

Although we're nobody but normal citizens, the prospect of having a murderer roaming around our city is terrifying enough.

He returns the phone back to my side as he rolls his eyes.

The glass clinks from the next table drew our attention. They come from a middle-aged woman with a pale skin, frizzy golden curls, and a sneering expression beneath her apple-sized sunglasses.

"Young man, where's my cookies-milkshake?" She twists her refilled wine glass with her manicured fingers, complementing her disdaining tone.

Axel's shoes kick my sandaled ones under the table, and as we exchange glances, I caught his offended face.

"Sorry, ma'am. Wait a sec." Axel forces the most sheepish smile he's got and burst into the indoor site with a flushed face.

"Holly! Get table 6's order!" Axel can be so extra at times. Life as a café owner's son has made him like this. He even inherited his dad's amplified voice.

"Another zero for the supposed heroes?" I read for myself, gulping when the news portal showcased a blotted-red title of a breaking news.

The cops have failed to narrow suspects on last night's after-opera murdering stage. However, one name remains at the top—the wolfish and merciless beast we know as Red Killing Hood.

I round up each corner for a sign of a murderer. It's not impossible for the top fugitive to strike here.

"Ahhhh!"

A woman's scream attracts each of the necks. With wobbly legs, I scramble down from the couch and search for the source of the commotion, which is near my table.

My instincts kick over. I divide through the forming crowd and rush to the front . . . to find the insulting woman who sat next to us, lying with her eyes rolling backward.