"Was his DNA on the weapon?" Silence. "It's his gun right? He'd pulled the trigger right? Was Terrence Gresham's DNA on the weapon?" He ran a hand through his chestnut hair.
"Maybe you're right, maybe we shouldn't think about Monday, but remember o...
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Heyy, soo we're on chapter three of the rewrite! If you've been enjoying this bouje book this far, please give it a vote!
Other than writing, I've been feeling guilty today because I'm literally skipping a full day of lectures... I'm not out having fun or anything, but I'm cooped up in bed, not completely healed. I feel guilty because I'm not as weak as I thought I would be, but I'm not healed either... Now I'm putting this question out there, am I wrong for ditching classes? Or am I being preventive by letting my malaria heal completely?
Anyway, onto the story!
★彡
The much-needed sleep Christina desired was a plan disposed of by the glare of the sun and the blare of her phone. She wasn't in bed, that much was clear; her bed was more comfortable and hardly woke her with an ache in her neck.
Her windows at home weren't fixed at her feet, they met the wall at the head of her bed by the right, her apartment easily shadowing the morning sun. She didn't even think there were any windows around her.
The agitating blare of horns and insistent chatter of pedestrians filled the air cancelling any and all assumptions that she were cuddled in the comfort of her bedroom. Agitated, she stirred sitting erect, her hands clutched around the edges of her head of ruffled mushroom brown hair, an attempt to regain consciousness. Her eyes fluttered open dancing around each detail of Park Avenue streets, pedestrians and photographers still lingered, but to her dreary mind, she paid them little focus as the night before poured into memory. Her eyes fluttered shut; heavy and groggy. Able to think and properly breath the crisp morning breeze, Christina reached her hands over her head; stretching and eluding a less-than-lady-like yawn from between her parted lips, one expression still clinging to her from the night before.
Terrence Gresham is a suspect in his colleagues murder.
"Takes a lot to fall asleep on a park avenue bench through the night and not get attacked," Christina's hands fell limp to her sides. Sure enough, Barron Harrington stood tall by a black Range Rover SUV, a small smile on his barely shaven face.
Unchanged from his steel grey blazer over a black turtleneck and washed jeans, he looked sexier in the daylight. His sleeves had been folded to his elbow exposing his toned forearm and a thin dark line of hair trailing down to meet his Rolex watch.
Staring wasn't exactly what Christina wanted to do; her eyes rested, not unblinking but slowed and yet the effect was soft and inviting instead of harsh. Perhaps it was her lips that give away her intention, not quite smiling but tilting as if they mean to. "Glad to see you slept well at least." Barron's lips twitched at his words, almost as if he was withholding a smile. She wanted to know what would become of his angular face if he cracked a smile? Christina straightened.
"Where's Terrence?" she asked instead, rather than deliberating her spur of the moment decision not to call an Uber and head home.
"Your daddy is fine. He's just giving an official statement, it's all due procedure." Christina straightened further, now sitting pin-straight on the grossly uncomfortable bench, an idle hand running through her tangled mushroom brown hair. Momentarily, she considered his words, baffled by the NYPDs' curiosity into Terrance Gresham's statement, one that they didn't even document until he was brought to the station? "In any case you should have gone home. You didn't need to be here any longer than the investigators, that's very risky on your part."
"Thanks for your concern, Detective, but my decisions really aren't your business." Christina croaked reaching for her still blaring phone, threatening to fall off the edge of the bench. A small smile shadowed her features when Grace's picture and number flashed across her screen.
"You should smile more. It suits you." Barron stated. She shrugged, deciding to overlook his comment.
"Why are you here detective?"
Christina was restless. Anxious to leave the nauseating streets and return to her home. She thought of running a warm bath and soaking her still recuperating body until it shriveled up. She thought of her apartment that was in every way better than the front entrance of Gresham Square at the moment; simply because of the complete lack of Barron Harrington's endeavor to make small talk.
"To talk."
"About?"
"Terrence."
"What about him? You already know what you need to. And unless you want to conduct an investigation on me, I advise you to kindly leave me and my family alone." He shook his head, her eyes trailing the reflection of the sun against his chestnut hair and natural dirty blonde tips.
"He was in contact with my father on the day of his death." Barron clarified. Turning around and pulling open the passenger door of the black SUV, he pulled out a body of documents, a file Christina was sure the police department had built on Terrence Gresham over the years. The thought of her father being arraigned before a court, had her heart galloping in her chest. He'd been there before, ten years ago, so why then did the thought scare her so much?
It was ten years ago...
"These are his phone records, he was the last person to speak to Lawrence before the murder." Christina shook her head, words lodged in her throat. "Don't push me away for trying to find out what really happened to my father," Barron explained, his tone dry. Her chest clouded.
"He's in custody isn't he?" She forced out, her bottom lip clasped between her front teeth. Silence. It was the type of silence that hurt, the type of silence that spoke volumes.
"You can help him." He said instead. " You can, by telling me what kind of relationship Terrence Gresham had with the deceased." It was back. That feeling. Her hands felt clammy and her throat dry. She shook her head. She couldn't recall much, but she knew they were friends and like friends they had fall-outs. Terrence Gresham was many things, a rude husband, a selfish father, but a murderer? It was appalling that detective Barron Harrington would risk the consequences of defamation to assume that Terrence Gresham was a murderer.
"You're barking up the wrong tree detective, Terrence Gresham is not a murderer." Christina brusquely said as she rose from her spot on the bench. he took a step back, easily towering over the defense attorney on the flat soles of her feet. She didn't falter. "And he is definitely not your murderer." Barron heaved a sigh shuffling through the papers before handing a single sheet to Christina.
"Please?" Barron implored. Christina tugged at the sheet of paper from his grasp, skimming over it the way she would any binding precedent. Unlike a tech-inclined officer, Christina could barely decode the references lingering about the single paged piece of paper. but these were Terrence's phone records from the day of Lawrence's death. Twenty-five minutes, they'd spoken for twenty-five minutes, this was time that Christina assumed would be too much for exchanging pleasantries.
"Help me help my father, Christina." His words were soft, his eyes a reflection of a shattered man who wore the expression of a child, one that had been told his mother was gone, but clung to the string of hope that he could get her back. "No one helped you when you were in my shoes, when you lost Michel, but you can help me," Barron explained, his hands buried in his pockets. Her throat tightened, hickory brown eyes glimmering with unshed tears. Her head dropped; hanging between taut shoulders, her hair a curtain over her face. Christina swallowed the dry bile in her throat easing through her imminent anxiety attack; numerous therapy techniques at her fingertips, near useless. She dropped back to the bench, sitting.
How did he know about Michel? Why was she still so affected by a death that occurred too many years ago?
