Ryan Cuevas is missing.
Not a clue, not a trace, not even a final word. Needless to say, in the small town of Whisper City, this disappearance is the most happening thing to occur in decades.
No one saw him leave. No one knew him enough to care to a...
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How did one identify a killer?
The shoes. The fit. The pseudo-charming facial expressions. The extra effort put into their mannerisms to make sure they didn't stand out. Maybe through a certain calming aura that surrounded them. And enough flexibility that allowed them to blend in with the rest of the crowd while at the same time, also being able to change according to the circumstances that prevented them from being caught. A number of other tics and acts that I could probably not recognise even if I looked for them.
But their eyes. Oh, their eyes would always be a dead giveaway. Their eyes were a direct window to their minds. Those invaluable gems bore everything a person was on the inside to the world outside.
If the man across the street could just lower his aviators a little bit, I would've found out all that I needed. Just a smudge down, and my curiosity would satiate itself. An insignificant movement that could allow me a tiny glimpse.
He moved. His hands reached into the inside of his jacket. What would he bring out? A gun? A knife? He seemed the type to have a gun. He wore a leather jacket that might have been cheaper than it looked and washed jeans that had seen better days. I imagined a tattoo of a geisha on his bicep. Something he regretted and would continue to regret for the remainder of his days.
I held my breath and watched. Watched the way he took out an object that was not quite what I expected but should've predicted nonetheless.
He plucked out a few bills from his wallet and placed them under the coffee cup.
I was expecting something exciting to turn this windy, tiny city a little lively. Disappointed? A little bit. But not at what he didn't do. I was disappointed with what he did do.
As he got up, he bumped his knee on the edge of the table. The cup tipped and spilt the remaining contents all over the bills that he had so conveniently placed under it. Panic, stumbling, and a few painful seconds later, he managed to push the sachet holder off the table, alerting anyone and everyone.
I couldn't watch the entire scene without feeling like a total mudhead that I ever thought this clumsy man was capable of murder. He wasn't even capable of jumping a ticket counter at a train station. And I didn't even need to look into his eyes for that.
No matter. Such fumbles were bound to happen from time to time.
A woman walked past, not a care for the brawl that my previous could-have-been man caused in the outdoor cafe.
Her eyes were on her phone, fingers typing at a speed I couldn't keep up with. A handbag that housed a spilling laptop hung at the crook of her elbow. The soft wind made her short hair dance. She was marvellous. The world would make its way for her, and it would do so at her mercy.
Our eyes met.
I saw it clear as day. I saw her climbing the three steps to the stage where she would accept the award. The audience clapped, the shutter lights went off, she shook hands with the presenter and then she took her place behind the podium. I saw her making history, and the very sight of it made my heart thrum with pride. I did not know who this woman was. I did not know what her profession entailed. I did not even see her before now. But I knew the hard work she put in. The bags under her eyes and a determination that would always grace her face were enough indications.
