THE VIRGIN SUICIDES ── Spencer Reid.

𝒗𝒊. honeyed words

Rossi and Prentiss shared a look, and turned back to the angered expression now metastasising on Miller's features. There is a certain disgust that cannot be feigned, that cannot be brought on from situations one had just heard about. Jane Miller was talking about Wilhelmina Blanchard, and she was talking about an experience received first handedly.

Miller composed herself. "You will say her name in front of me. You will call her Anne." For a brief moment, when Miller shut her eyes, she heard music. She heard the swelling sound of dainty fingers pressing against the Ivory keys of a piano, the soft murmur of a girl humming out a song in french. For that brief breath of eternity, Jane Miller saw a future in Paris with a girl who smelt of roses and had skin as soft as silk. Then, she smelt the bitter coffee of a police station, and she was sucked back into the vortex of reality.

Anne was dead. Gone, gone, gone. Her lover. Dead.

Rossi started, "Anne▬▬" Miller winced from an internal pain, "▬▬we need you to tell us what she was like on her last day, yesterday. Before she entered her home, you were the last person of the public to of seen her alive. You'll need to recount every moment, every word. We know this must be painful for you, Mrs Miller, but in order to let Miss B▬▬ to let Anne have justice, those memories are vital."

Jane Miller took a long, hard look at the two agents in front of her. Her lips opened and closed a few times, letting her misery live and die on her tongue, letting her teeth become tombstones for the start of sentences she didn't want to finish, but then the same french song whispered in her ear. With one nod, Mrs Miller composed herself, and began to tell the two FBI agents of the last time she saw Anne Blanchard.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

It seemed, from the moment Jane woke up on October 15th, everything was going wrong. For starters, her husband, Nicholas, had managed to thieve the sheets in the night, and had forgotten to shut the window before he finally drifted off to sleep. In retrospect, Jane should've known it would've happened. He was always forgetting things she told him to do▬▬ clean the dishes, turn the washing machine on, lock the back door, clean the sink after you brush your teeth. It was a never-ending cycle of immortal forgetfulness, and Jane was growing sick of it.

In truth, she really was planning on getting a divorce, she just didn't know how hard it was to unglue herself from the vows she had promised mere years ago. Until, of course, the girl from down the street asked for piano lessons. She had big, doe eyes and pink lips. Her hair smelt of green apples and she wore a rose scented perfume. One that she had probably saved up her pocket money for, and bought it down at Kohl's after school. She had been Captain of the netball team, but quit after her 18th birthday, and spent her Wednesday afternoons curled up in the satin sheets of Jane's bed.

Jane and Anne were friends before anything else, having moved into the town alone, the Blanchard family were the first neighbourly friends the Millers made, albeit Mrs Wilhelmina Blanchard sending sideways looks at twenty year old Jane, and her husband who had grown wrinkles in his forehead. 'She's in it for the money,' they'd think, and perhaps because Jane truly felt nothing for him, they were right. Men did not please her, and since she had not discovered the touch of a woman, she decided to bathe in their riches instead.

There was a refreshing aroma about the girl from 76 Rosefield street. Her honeyed words and dulcet voice made the icy hearts of austere men crack. There was something so eternally beautiful in her touch, in her smile, her teeth, her hands, her hair . . . Forever Anne would remain a temple with grand walls and golden pillars. Forever Jane would come eagerly on her knees to serve at the altar.