Willowcliffe

Cheri

Cheri had hoped that she would never have to hear a sound so earsplittingly disturbing again in her entire life. She doubted that she could recreate that sound if she tried--not that she wanted to, anyways. The best way she could describe it was a wail, but even just that word didn't do it justice. It was a wail that sounded like it screamed itself hoarse for hours and then proceeded to have an asthma attack. It was like someone tried to cry, but swallowed old, rusty nails instead. No, the sound if Helena Burnside screaming when Owen Zielinski told her that her daughter was dead was not something that Cheri could ever forget in her life. 

Now, one hour later, it was still echoing through the police station. The sound seemed to still bounce off the walls, deflecting from the shell that once was Helena. Already, she looked like she lost one year's worth of sleep. Her skin, normally rich and pink from laughing, was a sunken gray. Her hair, pulled into a haphazard ponytail, was bumpy and dry. She looked at the ground, not crying anymore, not even blinking. Next to her, Becka Burnside sobbed silently into the same tissue she had been nursing for over an hour now. Cheri had offered to get her a box, but she refused, just using the same damp, crumpled tissue over and over again until she could probably wring it out. Cheri didn't know just what to feel, looking at the mother and daughter. Again, the words didn't feel like they carried enough impact. Pity wasn't strong enough. When Cheri dared to glance over at them, she felt like she needed to lay down in a dark room. 

"Shoemaker," Owen snapped, bringing Cheri back to their conversation. His eyes, as normal, were cold and emotionless. In the month she knew him, Cheri had never seen Owen properly smile. The best she figured she would get from him was a slight upturn of his lips, which looked more pained than anything. He sighed, as if talking to her was a labor. "If you are going to be on this case--" 

"Yeah, I don't need reminding, thanks," Cheri shot back. "I'm focused, continue what you were saying." 

Cheri rapped her knuckles on the metal table of her desk. Everything in the detectives' office was made of metal: the tables, the chairs, the file cabinets. Even the paintings on the walls, that look like they were stolen from a hotel lobby in 1992, had reflective metal frames that reminded any person that this was indeed a police department and not some cold, lifeless office. There were five desks cramped in the small room; four of them belonged to the detectives of the town, and none of them had any decoration other than a handful of family photos or perhaps a coloring page a local child gifted them. Owen's desk in particular had absolutely no life to it. This wasn't because he was new, this was because, to Cheri, he lived a cold and meaningless life and had no sense of aesthetic. The only relief from the grays and browns of the room came from the fifth desk of the receptionist Veronica, who had several multicolored ceramic pots with plants, tacky office supply holders made to look like dogs with their mouths open, and layers of stickers from years and years of community events.

Owen raised his eyebrow slightly, as if her focus still wasn't enough for him. "We gotta delegate who does what. Someone should be in charge of timeline, someone should go back to the scene, someone should be in charge of releasing what we say to the town-- which will undoubtedly get to news stations one way or another." 

"I already got Joe on timeline. He's got Taylor's phone and is going through texts right now. And whatever gets said to the public, that's normally a job for Veronica."

"Isn't Veronica the receptionist?" 

"Well, yeah, but in case you haven't noticed, we don't necessarily have the facilities for a designated liaison," Cheri said, taking a swig of her stale coffee. She shuddered, but didn't dare get up to make another pot. She would have to leave their office to pass the Burnsides, and it felt almost inappropriate to do so.