RoseBlood

Calling Home

It hasn't been five minutes after Brunsley had ended the call that Edith rings, rolling her eyes at Emerson on her screen and impatiently telling him to pass the iPad to me. He does as she says without a word, and Edith smiles before flipping her camera, showing a slightly shaky view of my home.

I stare at its image on the screen, a rush of thoughts hitting me again. If the house is mine, am I expected to pay for everything? What about mum and dad's funeral? I've been classed as an adult for less than a week but the world doesn't care, it wants all it can take now that it has an excuse to. And what about college?

When this investigation ends, when the killer's caught, I'm on my own. That's never been a problem before, but this is different, isn't it?

Forget about that. Focus on now.

"Lizzie left the spare key with Brunsley, who's given it to me, by the way," Edith's voice explains, as her hand reaches out to unlock the door and push it open, giving a clear, square view of the hallway and stairs and opening to the living room. "Upstairs?"

"Yep. Just go straight and down the left, and it's the first door."

Edith follows my instructions, the camera drifting up to the bookshelves cluttered with old and new paperbacks. "Wow. You've got almost as many books as we have in our- sorry, not trying to snoop."

"No, it's fine. The casebook should be in this long wooden storage chest just opposite the bed. Right at the top."

I shift uncomfortably in my seat as I watch Edith open the chest, thinking of all the random things I've collected and memories that are stashed away, but Edith's as good as her word, and once she finds the book, she closes the chest immediately after.

It's ironic, in a way, that nothing much has changed back at home, like I was expecting the whole atmosphere to be poisonous and sour after the RoseBlood Killer intruding and my parents' murders just below the room that Edith's in, alone. But it's just quiet, now. No sounds of hurried footsteps to get to work or busy tapping on laptops or steady, professional voices on phones. I even miss the faint sounds of Lizzie hoovering the rooms even though they were already completely dust-free, polishing mirrors and wiping down surfaces with a small, absentminded smile.

"Alright!" Edith exclaims, snapping me out of my thoughts. "Your phone? Oh, wait, I think it's on one of your tables by your bed."

"Yeah, that's it."

"Do you have a bag I can fit a good amount of clothes into?"

"In the wardrobe, at the very bottom. Pack whatever, it's fine."

In the end, Edith folds up and puts multiple tops and leggings and hoodies and other needs into the backpack, zipping up the bulky shape of the bag with a bit of effort and sighing contentedly when it's done.

"Do you want me to bring anything else? Anything at all?"

The iPad screen shows me the whole of my room as Edith turns it around to take it all in. I can think of plenty of things I might have considered taking with me in the past - family pictures, souvenirs from the holidays we went on every so often when I was a lot younger, or book sets that Lizzie's given me to keep myself occupied. But I have more than enough to keep myself occupied, and I really can't afford any distractions.

"No, that's it, thanks."

"Okay, then! Well, I'm gonna go and lock up, and then I'll see if I can have a word with Clarissa. I should be back in a couple of hours."

"Alright. Thanks, Edith."

I give the iPad back to Emerson as she ends the call, and Elias leans back in his chair with an absent expression, eyes staring at the side of the table.

"Your dad," Elias suddenly speaks up, drawing my and Emerson's attention to him, "did he ever talk about... you know, someone else?"

"Someone else?" I repeat, raising a brow. "You mean, hints about an affair?"

"Well, yeah."

"No, he didn't. All my Mum and Dad really spoke about was work. Nothing about another woman. And even if there was, it was easy to tell with my dad when he was hiding something or feeling guilty. He got all fidgety and shut down the conversation. From what I could see, they were two average, hard-working people."

"Who deals with death," Emerson says, and I look at him icily.

"What are your theories, then, Emerson?"

"They must have associated with this murderer in the past. They weren't murdered out of random choice. Everything about this case has intricate meanings, however twisted. Your dad must have had some form of friendship or rivalry with them."

"Well, they could have been a client," I suggest with a shrug, "because they didn't have many friends outside of work."

"And what exactly did your parents do?"

"They worked in real estate," I respond, "one of the largest companies in town. Manager and coordinator."

"So, houses and properties," Emerson sums up, nodding as he opens up his notes again on his iPad. "Is that how Clarissa Newman knew your parents?"

"She knew my dad through his work, yes. She moved to Falmer earlier this year, apparently."

"If this series of killings is like it was before," Elias mutters, before frowning in confusion. "It's different this time, though, isn't it, Em? Only the parent was murdered."

Now it's my turn to frown, and I eye the boys suspiciously, my gaze lingering on Emerson.

"And what happened last time?" I ask, looking directly at Emerson. It's my turn to ask the questions now.

"A father of three children was killed four years ago," Emerson answers steadily, reminding me of what Brunsley had said about his friend, Daniel, though Emerson's face and tone gives nothing away, as usual. "His children weren't killed, though."

"His wife?"

"Died years ago, of natural causes," Emerson says simply. "But his children weren't hurt by the killer-"

"Not physically," Elias corrects, his eyes fixed on the table, and Emerson glances at him before continuing.

"They weren't hurt physically. But you have been. And if the death threats are genuine, which they most likely are, then you must be tied into this and have as much relevance as your parents do. You must have met them before, and I don't see it being a brief visit. I think that you've met them frequently before, unsuspecting, so they could observe you. Your routines, your parents' routines. Familiarising themself with every little detail so they knew exactly when, where and how to strike."

"They killed my parents on my birthday," I point out, "so maybe they want to get at me somehow? Make me feel a pain they felt?"

"There's got to be a deep enough reason for that kind of revenge, or they wouldn't have gone to such extremes."

"So I have to analyse everyone."

"Everyone you consider to be a friend, anyone you're familiar with, especially those who you feel like dismissing straight away."

"Because everyone's a suspect."

Elias looks between the two of us with an exasperated but amused expression. "Great duet you've got going on, here. It's freaking me out."

I frown slightly, closing my mouth, meeting Emerson's eye. His dark gaze is searching, curious, but that's all I can get out of him, before he looks away to read over what he's noted down.

Well. He looked away first, so there's that.