When Darkness Strikes | ls au

1. Beyond the Point of No Return

Her hair is immaculate, almost white against the dark leaves that carpet the ground. Harry can't draw his gaze away from the girl's head, where her expression can nearly be mistaken for a relaxed state. She looks like she's in a deep, peaceful sleep.

However, Harry knows it's not the case. He grips tightly onto his notebook and brings it up to his chest to comfort himself at the sight of the lifeless figure.

From the neck down, the girl's body is the opposite of her face. Slashes, cuts, and bruises cover the extent of her exposed, pale skin, lacking circulation. Dry blood paint her limbs, pools forming down below where she lays, staining the soil with impiety.

She's half-naked, and the brutal cold of winter has turned her fingertips to blue and purple. Her frail hands grip around nothing, her palms and forearms exhibiting cuts from defensive wounds, and he cringes at the picture that plays in his own mind, a moment of her fighting for her life.

In her neck, a distinctive bruise wraps around her throat, signs of strangulation, as if the sharp tools used to cut her body weren't enough for the killer. Above the suffocation marks, there's nothing visually distressing, almost distracting away the fact that she is no longer breathing.

It paints a picture of the murderer; someone that choose to not break the pureness of her face, to not disrupt the softness of her features, despite the violence committed to the rest of her.

Harry has never seen such scene, not even in photographs. His stomach turns itself out at every inch of skin he looks at, at every sight of physical trauma. He can't put himself to think of what the girl saw and went through at the last moments of her life. He can't imagine the pain, the fear, the screams that the forest swallowed like a black hole, to never be heard again.

The investigator shivers as a gush of gelid wind blows by. Leaves shift on the humid earth, some falling over her body, as if nature is desperately trying to erase the horrific occurrence.

Harry's eyes water, and he finally manages to look away. He turns to gaze at the trees instead and focuses on other sounds around him; the police officers talking amongst themselves, the crime scene tape being unwrapped, the clicks of the analog cameras capturing the scene.

His chest is drowning in dread, but he has a job to do. He tries to keep that in mind as he paces towards a police car, where a man stands talking on the radio, reporting the occurrences. The word "Sheriff" stamps his vest.

When the man notices Harry's awaiting presence, he turns on his heel. "Can I help you, sir?" He asks.

Harry breathes in the air and plans his words. "Hi, I'm private investigator Harry Styles," He says, offering his hand out, which the sheriff politely shakes in return. "I was hoping to talk to you."

"Styles," The sheriff repeats, his voice resonating on the ruffling of leaves and trees. "Yeah, I was told you'd come. The County's Department sent you, right?"

"Correct." Harry confirms.

"I'm the head of the local station, Sheriff Lucas, but most people call me Stan." The authority informs, grinning slightly at the end of his sentence.

It's something that Harry will never get used to. The awkward attempts of making casual conversation when there's such a gruesome sight so close by. It's a part of his work, to ask questions and get the information required, sometimes with dry blood underneath his shoes as consequence.

"It's nice to meet you, Sheriff." Harry coughs, focusing on his intentions. "So, I read some of the crucial data about the case on my way here, but I'd like to hear from a closer perspective."