When senior students at Lincoln High receive the same deadly text message, it falls upon Helena Gallagher and an unlikely companion to solve the mystery and catch the killer.
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High school student, Helena Gallagher is a murder fanatic. A devoted...
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I rasp my knuckles on the wooden door, following Mrs Jones' instruction of, "Come on in," shortly after. Her hair is in a bun, sat precisely atop her head; the shade a rich caramel with only the odd spec of grey. I notice her gaze is focused on a book in front of her, eyes magnified by the prescription glasses perched at the end of her nose.
"Helena, how are you?" she asks, finally looking up.
"Good, thanks. You?"
She offers me a coy smile. "I'm a bit out of sorts, to be honest."
I decide to take a seat.
"Principle Wilson is–was–my boss. But he was also a friend. A very good friend."
I nod.
"Anyway...I'm sure you didn't come here to listen to me moan."
"I came to thank you for the casserole actually. It was delicious," I inform. "And–for what it's worth–I think you're entitled to a little moan right now. You've grieving the loss of a friend."
I refrain from telling her what I know about said friend.
"Thank you."
"Maybe I should be bringing you casseroles," I suggest, making the woman in front of me laugh.
It's nice seeing her smile a genuine smile.
"Your Mom tells me you're waiting to hear back from Penn," she says, seemingly in need of a lighter subject matter. "That's exciting."
"And slightly nauseating," I admit.
"Don't be nervous. They'd be silly to reject you."
Let's hope they think that.
"Thanks."
I allow my eyes to wander around her office, noticing the addition of Oak Valley police department; their stuff everywhere. They're still using this area as a makeshift interview room and the space is a little cluttered as a result. Still, it's homely. Relaxing. Which, I suppose is what you want when prying information out of someone.
The walls are painted a warm lemon, symbolic of Mrs Jones' cheery personality. Her desk houses a few loose papers, a house plant and what looks to be a photograph of a young boy.
"That's my son," she smiles, noticing my intrigue.
"What's his name?"
"Ben. He's thirteen."
I smile. "He looks like you."
My saying this seems to please her. The once strained smile on her lips becomes a full blown grin, interrupted by another gentle knock at her door.
