Beyond the Screams ✔

Chapter Twenty One

Everything was exactly how I remembered it. The grey, steel walls sending pinpricks of fear down my spine. Nothing was different. When I had met Donald at the homely chapel, I had half expected that when he pulled off the blindfold, that I would be in a completely different location. But alas, I was in the same building, standing in front of the same door. Strange.

"You can head in if you want," Donald said, breaking me out of my thoughts, "Whenever you're ready."

 I nodded in thanks and watched him slink off into the dark hallways, disappearing from my view. I took a deep breath and raised my fist to door. The sound echoed, accompanied by an 'enter' from inside the office. I didn't waste any time. Pushing the door open and striding straight into the room.

It seemed that something had changed about this whole ordeal. His office was newly decorated. Large paintings that looked as if they had been dragged from the Lourve in Paris. Bright lighting hung from the ceiling, illuminating the room in a yellowish light. He looked the same. Small brown tufts of hair poking out from underneath his black hat. The perfect suit, harsh eyes. Nothing out of place.

"I'll be completely honest with you Ms Hughes." He started, leaning back in his chair, "I was wondering when you would come crawling back for more information. But I will say, you resisted much longer than I originally thought you would."

I scoffed, "No need to resist when the temptation wasn't there."

He said nothing, but his joker's grin didn't falter. "Sit."

I did, there were new chairs as well. The wood was stunning, shiny almost. The padding was comfortable, clearly imported.

"New office?" I inquired, raising an eyebrow.

He looked around, "Yes, I suppose. I was getting quite bored with my last."

I inwardly rolled my eyes, the confidence oozing from his words made me shudder in discomfort "I want information. Do you have it?" I asked simply, done with the friendly chat.

"Of course I do. What do you want to know?"

"George Michaels," I demanded, "Is he the one I'm looking for?"

He paused. "No. He's not."

My stomach dropped, "What do you mean?" My voice came out hoarse.

He shrugged, "He isn't your killer. He has ties to the murder. He knows who it is, he knows how its been happening and he has helped in the act, but he hasn't raised a gun. He hasn't killed anyone."

I closed my eyes, taking in the news. It wasn't him. That meant that I was wrong about one of my suspects. I knew at this point, it couldn't be Edith. She had left the country the day after meeting with Bryce. There had been kills since then.

"Who's the murderer. Tell me, right now, tell me who it is!" I almost screamed, my voice raising.

Clarke pulled a hand to his chin, stroking it as if in thought. "No."

"NO?!?" I roared, "You know who it is! You have to tell me!"

He tutted and shook his head. "You organised this meeting darling. If I don't want to tell you something, I don't have to. I have every right. You don't need someone to tell you who is behind this, because you are so close Rosemary. I will not be answering the question, at least, not any time soon,"

I sighed, "So he's innocent?"

Mr Clarke smiled sadistically, "No, but he doesn't deserve to be in prison nearly as long as the murderer will be."

I collapsed into the back of the chair, pushing down the urge to scream. "The killer works at MacPherson music?"

"You asked me that last time Ms Hughes. The answer hasn't changed."