❝If there was one thing Anthony Lockwood was afraid of, it would be Carolynne Blair Lynch's pure, mere, terrifying beauty.❞
𝐃𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐝 𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐭? Perhaps a day that didn't go your way so now you'd...
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𝐏𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬,, four teenagers standing upon the door step of a crime scene - ringing the doorbell in hopes serial killing suspects would come to answer and let them in. Bizarre, right?
It was precisely four o'clock in the dark, storm-soaked afternoon of early November, the shadows became longer and the rooftops of old Whitechapel stood out against the cloud cover. Rain gleamed on their rapier swords and speckled their clothing.
The three-story Lavender Lodge boardinghouse (at which they were standing at) was a slender, layered structure. There seemed to be a tired, downtrodden aspect to it, as there was to most of this area of East End, London. The outside plaster was covered with soot, and the windows were adorned with drapes of sheer fabric. The hall light was on and a yellowing VACANCY sign was wedged behind the sheet of ruptured glass in the very middle of the door, but no lights seemed evident in the upper stories.
"Everyone ready?" Lockwood asked. "Remember, we ask them some questions, we keep careful psychic watch. If we get any clues to the murder room or the location of the bodies, we don't let on. We just say good-bye politely, and head off to fetch the police."
"That’s fine," Lucy said. George, busily adjusting his work belt, nodded.
Carolynne squeezed Lockwood's hand with a hum. "Just for the sake of all our lives, please refrain from copying accents. I know I say it a lot but I really mean it this time, the outcome would be a lot worse than that Irish man you imitated months back."
