Her hair is immaculate, almost white against the dark leaves that carpet the ground. Harry can't draw his gaze away from the girl's head, where her expression can nearly be mistaken for a relaxed state. She looks like she's in a deep, peaceful sleep.
However, Harry knows it's not the case. He grips tightly onto his notebook and brings it up to his chest to comfort himself at the sight of the lifeless figure.
From the neck down, the girl's body is the opposite of her face. Slashes, cuts, and bruises cover the extent of her exposed, pale skin, lacking circulation. Dry blood paint her limbs, pools forming down below where she lays, staining the soil with impiety.
She's half-naked, and the brutal cold of winter has turned her fingertips to blue and purple. Her frail hands grip around nothing, her palms and forearms exhibiting cuts from defensive wounds, and he cringes at the picture that plays in his own mind, a moment of her fighting for her life.
In her neck, a distinctive bruise wraps around her throat, signs of strangulation, as if the sharp tools used to cut her body weren't enough for the killer. Above the suffocation marks, there's nothing visually distressing, almost distracting away the fact that she is no longer breathing.
It paints a picture of the murderer; someone that choose to not break the pureness of her face, to not disrupt the softness of her features, despite the violence committed to the rest of her.
Harry has never seen such scene, not even in photographs. His stomach turns itself out at every inch of skin he looks at, at every sight of physical trauma. He can't put himself to think of what the girl saw and went through at the last moments of her life. He can't imagine the pain, the fear, the screams that the forest swallowed like a black hole, to never be heard again.
The investigator shivers as a gush of gelid wind blows by. Leaves shift on the humid earth, some falling over her body, as if nature is desperately trying to erase the horrific occurrence.
Harry's eyes water, and he finally manages to look away. He turns to gaze at the trees instead and focuses on other sounds around him; the police officers talking amongst themselves, the crime scene tape being unwrapped, the clicks of the analog cameras capturing the scene.
His chest is drowning in dread, but he has a job to do. He tries to keep that in mind as he paces towards a police car, where a man stands talking on the radio, reporting the occurrences. The word "Sheriff" stamps his vest.
When the man notices Harry's awaiting presence, he turns on his heel. "Can I help you, sir?" He asks.
Harry breathes in the air and plans his words. "Hi, I'm private investigator Harry Styles," He says, offering his hand out, which the sheriff politely shakes in return. "I was hoping to talk to you."
"Styles," The sheriff repeats, his voice resonating on the ruffling of leaves and trees. "Yeah, I was told you'd come. The County's Department sent you, right?"
"Correct." Harry confirms.
"I'm the head of the local station, Sheriff Lucas, but most people call me Stan." The authority informs, grinning slightly at the end of his sentence.
It's something that Harry will never get used to. The awkward attempts of making casual conversation when there's such a gruesome sight so close by. It's a part of his work, to ask questions and get the information required, sometimes with dry blood underneath his shoes as consequence.
"It's nice to meet you, Sheriff." Harry coughs, focusing on his intentions. "So, I read some of the crucial data about the case on my way here, but I'd like to hear from a closer perspective."
Realizing his cue, the Sheriff – Stan – sighs and tucks his thumbs underneath his vest. "The girl is Claire Denholm, she's eighteen years-old, lived in a neighborhood a few miles away." He informs, and Harry recalls reading the information before. The sheriff continues; "She was reported missing by her parents. They say that she ran away the on Saturday night after they had a fight."
"Was it a violent fight? Do you know?" Harry questions, trying to find motives, although the girl's parents were, most likely, not suspects.
The sheriff shakes his head. "No, supposedly it was a simple altercation. Teenagers can be tough to deal with, sometimes. They said she just took her car and left. It wasn't the first time she would have ran off, so they only reported her missing on Sunday night when she failed to come back home."
"So, last night." Harry mumbles to himself. It's Monday morning, which means: "She was gone for almost a day, before her death, I suppose."
"Positive." Stan agrees.
Harry licks his lips, thinking. "Is there any information of where she was, where she went to, during the time she was gone?"
The sheriff looks down for a brief second, but it seems like nothing of importance comes to his mind. "No, at least not until now, we don't have that information." He responds. "Honestly, detective, you got here as early as we did. We know just about the same, for now."
"I guess you're right." Harry nods to himself. "Thank you for your time, sheriff. Would you mind if I pass by your station later today, after the Forensics team finishes the report?"
"Absolutely, we want as much help as we can get." Stan grins sympathetically, and Harry excuses himself.
The trees behind the police car rattle and wave at the cold breeze, and Harry thinks about how the girl – Claire – was alive just a day before that moment. He shivers, maybe from the cold, maybe from dread, and decides that there's nothing in that scene that his mind will ever manage to shake away completely.
He glances at the beige car parked on the side of the road. It's Claire's car, and as he approaches, cutting a path between police officers and crime-scene photographers, he notices that the driver's door was left open. From what he can see from the closed windows, her car is messy, but it's nothing out of the ordinary. A coat is thrown on the backseat, a half-empty water bottle in the cup holder. The key is missing, and he assumes it must be somewhere between her torn clothes.
Harry tries to imagine a scene in his head; her last moments, her intentions in that place. He thinks that, possibly, she saw something or someone, in the woods or in the road, pulled over and got attacked. She's laying around a hundred feet from the car, Harry can see it, the white, pale corpse in the distance, between the greeneries of the woods.
He swallows a bitter, hidden mystery down his throat, a lump that won't go away, and heads towards his own car, leaving the scene and driving to the local hotel.
After a restless afternoon and an uneasy stomach in a lonely hotel room, Harry drives to the station at the end of the evening.
The streets are covered in a grey mist that only adds to Harry's dreadful sensations. It almost seems to be a too-perfect scenario for such a brutal murder to happen; a small town surrounded by dense woods and low altitudes that hold the plain terrain of the city. He thinks it could be a cozy place, quiet and comfortable, if not given the circumstances.
He arrives at the station and doesn't hesitate to call out for the sheriff at the reception. Officers give him side-eyed looks and turn their faces away from him while he stands, awaiting. It's a usual part of his job, too, to be rejected by the local police. His lack of familiarity from the city turns his presence into a discomfort for those who grew up there, those who voluntarily put themselves in positions to protect their hometowns.
He's used to it, though, and when the sheriff appears, there's recognition in his expression for a second, before he offers a gentle grin. "Good to see you again, detective. Please, come to my office."
Harry doesn't miss his cue and follows the man until they have reached said room. Stan closes the door, and when Harry is offered a seat at his desk, he gestures to a stack of documents and folders at the edge of the tabletop.
"It's all the information that we gathered from this morning's investigation." He tells Harry. "Forensics, crime scene photos, and in that box, there are a few items I can let you take a look at it after it comes back from the lab to test for any DNA that may have been left behind."
As he talks, Harry goes through the folders and files, handling each document with careful fingertips. "What about the autopsy's report?" Harry questions, feeling his curls fall on top of his eyes. He doesn't care enough to brush it away.
Stan ponders. "The autopsy report is supposed to be delivered tomorrow." He answers.
Harry stops for a second, grasping at a picture taken of Claire's face. The lack of bruising and wounds stuns him again, as he reminds himself the how the rest of her were. He shivers, looking up at the sheriff who stands with crossed arms over his loosen-up vest. "Is there any chance that I can accompanying the autopsy?"
Stan bites the inside of his mouth. "I'm afraid that's not possible." He sighs. "The autopsy is made overnight, but I could let you take a look at the body early in the morning, at the morgue."
Harry inhales, not expecting the dense, thick air that surrounds the atmosphere. He glances towards Stan, nodding. "That would be of help. Thank you, Sheriff."
The sheriff nods, kind eyes staring back at him. "I have to lock the office in a few, but feel free to take these with you. We have copies."
The investigator's shoulders loosen up at the thought of having time to go over the papers, of being able to work at his own rhythm. "I appreciate the help, again. I'll see you tomorrow."
After that, Harry drives his way back to the hotel, ready to spend the remaining hours of the evening submerged in the investigation.
He reads over the reports, the interviews made with people that live nearby where the crime occurred. Allegedly, no one had mentioned dubious activity in the area; no suspicious vehicles were reported, not even noises from the struggle. In his second cup of coffee, close to midnight, Harry shudders at the thought of screaming for help, only for it to go unheard, unnoticed.
The crime scene pictures are as gruesome as the real thing. The photographers captured details that Harry had noticed early that day; the strangulation marks in her neck, the defensive wounds in her hands and arms, and the bruises in her bare chest showed that she had been held face down, against her will. Although she was found with her lower body clothed, Harry hopes that she didn't suffer any sexual assault during her struggle.
He moves on to the pictures of her car and its interior. His hands tremble, a consequence from the exaggerated amount of caffeine he had taken, while he spent another hour towards dawn, looking at the same pictures of the car, searching each inch of the photograph for something that might help the course of the case.
Nothing extraordinary appears, but Harry doesn't fail to spot details and write them down at his notebook.
A stain in the edge of the driver's seat. Maybe spilled coffee/other beverage.
Necklace hanging from the rear view mirror.
Coat in the backseat.
A pair of shoes under the passenger seat.
Harry stops.
He reads over his last written sentence, attentive eyes going over the element he spotted. The shoes, which seems to be owned by Claire herself, were left under the passenger seat. Making more of a mess of the documents on the hotel's tiny desk, possibly throwing papers on the floor, he grabs a picture of Claire's entire body, and realizes she's wearing pants, socks, but no shoes.
The mud and dirt evident in her socks highly suggest that she had exited the car without shoes.
Claire's last moments may have been a rush of adrenaline, considering that she didn't care putting her shoes on before getting out of her vehicle. Or, Harry thinks, maybe she was pulled out of the car forcefully, which would explain why the driver's door was left open.
Harry wants to pull at his own hair for creating more doubts than responses, but he recognizes that something like this was exactly what he was looking for. The more questions made, the more chances of getting an answer.
The answer, however, wouldn't come to him at three in the morning, while a light drizzle creates a melody in the glass of the window, echoing through his quiet hotel room.
He decides to go to bed, then, despite the desperate buzz in his mind, begging for him to continue looking further, disregarding his physical state. Exhausted, he falls asleep before he knows it, with scenes of Claire and her peaceful face painted behind his eyelids.
With just a few hours of sleep in him, Harry drives to the station not long after sunrise.
The town looks warmer during that time, with slight orange tones peeking from behind the mist in the atmosphere, but the place is still eerie. Harry can almost physically feel it, deep down in his bones, the way that each hour in that place adds to his discomfort, creeps into his bloodstream like a parasite.
He's always been a good detective, has been the golden man at his county for years, but he certainly doesn't feel like it; not when he's seeing gruesome scenes and passing through unnerving parts of the city and its dark surrounding woods just to get to where he needs to. He can't wait to leave, after putting the killer behind bars.
He arrives at the station not long after and appreciates the lack of an overwhelming quantity of police cars, which is understandable by the early time he enters the building. A single officer stands in the reception, and when Harry asks him for the sheriff, the man takes Harry directly towards the morgue.
The investigator can hear Stan's voice echoing faintly through the long hallway that leads to the morgue. The white walls are too bright, spotless, and he shivers just thinking of the bodies that have crossed that same path. On the last door, the officer excuses himself, and Harry is left alone at the morgue's entrance.
Before he twists the doorknob in his hand, Harry can hear another voice inside, one other than Stan's. It's high pitched and the tone is coated in annoyance. By the muffled dynamic of the conversation, Harry can tell that there's a heated discussion happening.
He creaks the door open, the handles moaning as he does so, and then there are two pairs of eyes on him and his tall frame, standing by the door.
"Styles." Stan says, swallowing short in his throat. He places his hands on his hips and gestures for Harry to come inside. There's another man standing in front of him, arms crossed over his chest. He's shorter, brown hair and tan skin, contrasted with Stan's and Harry's own pale complex.
Harry breathes, ignoring the obvious tension in the room. "Good morning, Sheriff. Is everything alright?" He asks, voice reverberating inside.
"Yes, absolutely." Stan nods, and turns to the other man in front of him. Something in his eyes show discontent about his presence, and Harry bites his lips. "This is Harry Styles, he's a private investigator from the County." The sheriff offers, and then turns to Harry. "This is Detective Tomlinson, he used to work here."
"Oh," Harry nods, subconsciously gripping his notebook tighter. "Have you been assigned for the case as well?" He asks the shorter man, whom he notices, doesn't seem mellow at all.
His eyes are ice cold and intense when he looks towards Harry's direction. "That's none of your concern." He hisses, and Harry feels his chest heaving with an unexpected adrenaline.
Stan's voice disrupts the hostility of the moment, sounding just as annoyingly as the detective. "But it is of my concern, Tomlinson, and I still don't understand why you're here."
"We're not having this discussion in a morgue." Detective Tomlinson looks up at the sheriff and speaks through a tight jaw.
Harry takes a step back, reconsidering his presence in the place. There's a silhouette under a white cloth on the morgue table between them, and he shivers at the realization. "I'm sorry, I think I should go."
"No, Styles," Stan protests. "Stay, don't mind him."
Harry tries to not notice the sharp stares he gets from the detective, as the three men approach the table and the body. The sheriff removes the white cloth from Claire's corpse, revealing bits of her at ever inch he pulls.
She looks even more pallid now that the mud and dry blood has been washed away. Her bruises are darker against her cold skin, and the cuts around her body seem more evident, gashes exposed and intrusive on her innocent frame. Harry winces, and he finds himself unable to look away from her face, again. Her eyes appear to be deeper, more tired, surrounded by purplish tones, eternally motionless.
"Here." Stan offers Harry a pair of gloves, before offering another pair to detective Tomlinson, who snatches it without much gentleness.
Once Harry's hands are protected, he examines her arms, checking the defensive wounds. He makes a mental note about trying to identify what kind of blade could cut so deeply, down to the bone. He spots a few scratches in her wrists, but they seem to be self-inflicted. There's also a faint red bruise around her wrist bones, indicating that she was bounded in some way, maybe by the killer's own hands, maybe by a rope or something of the sort. It adds to the suggestion that she was held and pressed down against the ground.
"Is there any indication of sexual assault?" Harry questions, voice slightly trembling as it echoes through the morgue.
He looks up at Stan as the sheriff checks the autopsy papers. He shakes his head a few moments later. "No." He says simply.
Harry breathes, a bit more relieved. "What was the estimated time of death, before she was found?"
Stan blinks, staring at the paper. "Around nine hours."
Harry thinks to himself as he stares at the girl's blonde locks of hair. "She was found at eight a.m., yesterday." The investigator mumbles to himself. "So, she was possibly already deceased before midnight, Sunday."
"You did that math all by yourself?" The detective rudely interrupts.
Harry sends a glare towards his way, bothered by the way that his impolite posture barely breaks as he does so. He inhales, fighting the annoyance that threatens to rush up his structure, and ignores Tomlinson's comment. "At what time was she reported missing?" Harry quizzes.
"The file was completed at eight p.m., I took in the case of her disappearance right after, with her parents still here at the station." The sheriff informs.
Harry glances down at the corpse, then up at the detective. It caught him off guard, how Tomlinson's expressions had changed as he stared down at Claire's face. It was one of empathy, pain, and anger joined the mix as he clenches his jaw.
"Her face isn't damaged." Tomlinson points out, and Harry shivers at the similarity of their perception. Then, the detective looks up, eyes watering, and locks his gaze with Stan's. "Not a scratch on her face." He mumbles, voice shaking, and exchanges some sort of emotion with Stan, one of recognition, indicating that both men may know something that Harry doesn't.
Detective Tomlinson storms out of the morgue after that, leaving a stunned Harry and a sighing, unfazed Stan behind.
"What's wrong with him?" Harry asks, unable to stop himself from commenting.
The sheriff shrugs. "It's a long story."
Harry decides to leave it at that and focuses back on the case, quite literally, lying in front of him. "Anyways, I assume the cause of death is strangulation?" The investigator continues.
"Asphyxiation, yes." Stan confirms. "However, it's possible that she would die regardless of the strangulation, from blood loss consequent of her wounds."
Harry cringes slightly, running his gloved digits through hardened patches of skin underneath the bruises in her collarbones and shoulders. There's small scratches and irritations in her breasts, maybe from being dragged while she was already held down. Could be consequent of her movements as she struggled against her attacker, Harry considers.
"So, she was stabbed and cut before she died." Harry thinks out loud. "Was that some sort of torture? Why the overkill?"
Stan shrugs, tossing the autopsy's report on another unused table. "I don't know. But it's sick, twisted."
"Tell me about it." Harry agrees. "It's brutal."
The investigator covers Claire's body again, preserving the sight of her state under a white cloth, and he shivers as he glances at the girl's peaceful, lifeless face, one last time. "Could you give me her parent's contact number? I'd like to talk to them myself."
"Of course." Stan agrees and complies. "We have an interrogation room here if you'd like to use it. I can arrange it for you this afternoon."
"That would be useful. I'll come around later this evening." Harry says, turning his heel to walk away.
"Wait," The sheriff touches Harry's shoulder just before he leaves the morgue. "Here, copies of the autopsy's report, in case you want to dig into that."
After a thankful grin, the investigator exits the building, notebook, and folders in hand, only to spot the figure of the discourteous detective from before. He stands in the station's parking lot, a cigarette between his lips and hands on his pockets. Harry ignores his presence, walks towards his car, and ignores the brief glances he receives from Tomlinson.
Claire has the same hair as her mother. Harry can't help but notice.
She's a middle-aged lady, blonde locks cascading down her shoulders and her eyes are a deep blue. Harry wonders if Claire had the same eye color, and it comes to his realization that he hadn't seen a picture of her before her death.
"I talked to the police yesterday, already." The woman expresses, features deepened with grief.
From across the table, Harry grins empathetically at the mother, hoping that it would give her some sense of comfort. Unfortunately, he knows it won't. "I know, Mrs. Denholm, but I'm not the police. I'm a private investigator, I was sent by the County's Department, I came all the way from the South, and I am not going back until the case is solved." He explains, and it somehow makes the lady's hands tremble slightly less.
Mrs. Denholm nods timidly, looking down at the surface of the table, hands between her knees and eyes threatening to water. "Okay." She consents, and Harry plans his next words.
"I can't even begin to grasp how hard it must have been for you and your family." He speaks softly, his tone barely echoing in the closed room. "I need you to tell me what happened before Claire left the house."
The woman sighs, fighting the dark sorrow surrounding her heart. "Claire and her father, my husband, were fighting a lot for the past week. It was just about her grades at school, but she never liked to be confronted." The lady sniffled, picking at her own fingertips on top of the table. "I came home from work, they were shouting at one another, so she packed a bag, grabbed her keys and left. I never thought it was going to be the last time I'd see her."
Mrs. Denholm cries then, unable to hold back from the overwhelming emotions. Harry fights tears himself as he places his hands on top of the woman's trembling knuckles, offering comfort. She squeezes his fingers, sniffling and whimpering quietly. "My husband is devasted, I couldn't even get him out of the house today."
"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Denholm. You and your family shouldn't have to go through this." Harry presses his hands together, biting the inside of his mouth to hold his emotions in. "There's something else I want to ask you. Do you have any idea of where she could have stayed when she left?"
The woman thinks for a moment. "She had a best friend, her name is Riley Mitchell, she lives on the other side of town, but they went to school together. Claire was always with her, so I'd assume that's where she stayed."
Harry nods. "I appreciate the information, ma'am, and that you came here to talk to me. Claire deserves justice. I won't let this case go cold."
"Thank you, sir." She grins weakly.
Harry smiles back. "Please, call me Harry. I'll be working around town until we solve this, you can contact me at any time if anything else that you think it's important comes to mind, alright?"
"Alright." Mrs. Denholm sniffles at last, drawing her hands back to dry her tears.
Harry is positive that this is the worst part of his job. Worse than the corpses, the gruesome crime scenes, the frustrations of a tangled case, the dead-end leads. He's an emotional person, and it's difficult for him to not sympathize with the victims and the victim's families. Somehow, it motivates him to go forward, to not give up until he has all the answers, until justice has been served. Perhaps, it's the reason why he's so good at his job.
Then, something clicks in his mind.
"She packed a bag, grabbed her keys and left."
She packed a bag.
A bag.
There was no bag in the car or in the crime scene.
"Mrs. Denholm," Harry calls, tone suddenly serious. The woman looks towards him, flushed and teary. "You said she packed a bag. Do you remember what that bag looked like? Can you describe it?"
The lady ponders for a moment, confused. "I think it was light yellow, there were some stamps on it, but I can't recall exactly." She describes. Harry's mind buzzes as it often does when he finds a possible new lead. "Why?" She asks.
The investigator grins. The grey tones of the interrogation room only add to his anxiety. "It's important for us to know all the details, in case of a possible clue we haven't given enough attention yet."
The grieving mother nods, maybe too sorrowful to question further. Harry leads her out of the room gently. "Thank you again for the cooperation, Mrs. Denholm. I promise you; Claire will have justice."
She looks like she holds onto the promise, and appreciatively grins at Harry, before walking out and towards the station's reception. Harry accompanies her, and much for the investigator's dismay, a familiar figure approaches Mrs. Denholm on her way out.
"Hi! I'm sorry to be so sudden, I'm a detective too, and I wanted to ask you something." Detective Tomlinson questions, gently speaking towards the grieving mother.
Harry, on the other hand, feels his chest heaving with annoyance at the other man. "Detective Tomlinson, what are you doing?" He asks, but Tomlinson barely bats an eye, ignoring Harry as he focuses completely on Mrs. Denholm.
"Did you daughter have a boyfriend? Or a partner, in general?" He questions the lady.
From where Harry's standing, he can see the mother's sad eyes drop to the floor as she searches for an answer. "Ahn, yes, a boyfriend." She responds.
"Could I have his name, please?" Detective Tomlinson adds.
"Thomas Hale." Mrs. Denholm answers. Harry watches quietly as the woman's features twists into morbid doubts. "Do you think he could have-"
Tomlinson is quick, blue eyes that were gelid before, are now warm, and sweet. "We don't know, ma'am, but we must go over everyone that surrounded her. Thank you, and I'm sorry for your loss."
With that, Mrs. Denholm nods and exits the building, her heart carrying heavy grief out the door. Harry fights the adrenaline in his veins, the heated irritation that makes his hands clench, when he looks at Detective Tomlinson and finds a smug smirk splattered on his face.
"I'm asking you again, what are you trying to do?" Harry questions in an angry whisper, glancing around at the officers standing in the reception.
"What do you think, investigator?" Tomlinson says, tone unkind and cold. "I'm trying to help with the bloody case. Now, if you'll excuse me,"
The shorter man tries to take the papers and folders from Harry's grip, but the investigator quickly retracts his hand, his green eyes piercing through Tomlinson's face. "Don't." Harry warns.
The detective shrugs, unbothered. "Well, want to come and help me then?"
"Thought it was none of my concern." Harry hisses.
Again, the shorter man shows no reaction. "Whatever. Follow me if you want to."
Tomlinson walks past Harry, towards the long corridor where the offices are located. Harry doesn't know why, but he follows the man as he paces further into the station's maze-like hallways with familiarity, and he remembers Stan saying that Detective Tomlinson used to work there.
Eventually, Tomlinson reaches the Sheriff's office, that seems to be empty. He glances around, and when no other worker is in sight, he enters the room. Harry follows, and steps inside carefully as he watches the detective move behind the Sheriff's desk, pressing buttons on the keyboard.
Harry closes the door once he realizes what is going on. "Are you breaking into the Sheriff's computer?" Harry whispers, now suddenly paranoid, as he looks around but finds no one.
Tomlinson smirks. "He won't mind if he doesn't find out."
He types, focused, and Harry doesn't move away from where he's standing. His face is illuminated by the screen's faint light, his gaze shifting through the large monitor. Harry can't help but notice a pattern in Tomlinson's behavior, how he eagerly grabs pen and paper from the desk and scribbles hastily when he finds the information he's looking for. Harry recognizes that he himself isn't so different.
The detective exhales relieved, the sound echoes through the quiet office. "Thomas Hale. Got his address. Is there any other name you would like to search?"
Harry bites the inside of his cheek, fighting with his inner annoyance. When he feels his own pride and dislike towards the man weight heavier than the need for information to help with the case, he breathes deeply, composing himself.
"Mitchell. Riley Mitchell." Harry says.
Tomlinson nods, and types frantically again, searching for the data until he finds it. "Got it." He informs, scribbling down on the paper. After that, he turns the computer off and exits the office, walking past Harry once again.
"What-" Harry mumbles, confused by the man's behavior, but follows him, nonetheless. Tomlinson exits the building with the paper in his hand, and he only looks up from it when he reaches Harry's car on the parking lot.
Tomlinson locks his eyes on Harry, tapping on the hood of his vehicle. "Come on, we don't have all day. I'll talk to the boyfriend and you can go over the Riley girl." He says, his tone demanding and somewhat rude, despite his train of thought making sense for the case.
"What makes you so certain that I'm going to drive you around?" Harry questions as he unlocks his car, but Tomlinson doesn't offer him a reply, as he simply sits on the passenger seat. "Fucking prick." Harry mumbles, entering the car too and ignoring the other man's presence as he drives away.
"When was the last time you saw Claire?"
Riley swallows a lump down her throat, but Harry doesn't find her body language lingering around suspicion. Maybe, because she's crying, and her eyes are already swollen from days' worth of grieving. The young girl is holding tightly onto her mother's hand as the pair sits on their living room couch.
Harry waits until the teenager stops the quiet sobbing that keeps her from answering, his head hanging low. When he hears her voice, he looks up.
"Sunday, before she left." Riley informs, wiping her tears away.
Harry ponders for a moment before adding; "She stayed the entirety of Saturday night in your household, is that correct?" He asks Mrs. Mitchell, Riley's mother, whose long brown curls resemble his own.
"Yes." Mrs. Mitchell responds, holding her daughter's hand. "Claire was such a sweet girl. We all cared a lot for her. She came around very often and they were best friends for so long," She speaks, her own voice tight with sadness. "I don't understand it."
Harry offers a sympathetic grin. "Neither do we, Mrs. Mitchell. It's a terrible occurrence and we are putting all efforts to find who is behind this." He says. "That's why I need to know everything that happened here before she left. It might help fill in a few blanks."
Mrs. Mitchell nods, and Riley sobs quietly, drawing her knees together. Harry turns to the young girl, who looks up at him with deepening features. Harry feels his chest tighten; it's painful to see someone as young as Riley having to experience a horrid feeling at such an early age. He can almost see her youth and energy dissolving into a bitter realization; the layers of innocence peeling back to reveal a cruel world.
"Riley, did Claire express any concerns to you that night? Did she mention anyone that wanted to hurt her? Were there any threats? Did she seem fearful for her life?" Harry quizzes, ignoring the knot in his own throat.
The teenager shakes her head. "No, she was fine. Everything was normal. She was just mad at her dad, but nothing out of the ordinary."
Harry nods. "I see. Did she bring anything when she came?"
Riley furrows her eyebrows, confused. "What do you mean?"
"Like, a bag, clothes, things of the sort." The investigator replies.
"Oh." Riley's eyes roam the center table for a moment. Harry can almost see her brain collecting the memories of Saturday night, the last hours she spent with her best friend, unknowing of her tragic fate. "She just brought a bag with her clothes and stuff. She always did when she came over."
"Can you describe what that bag looked like?" Harry adds.
The teen nods. "Yeah, ahn, it was light yellow, I guess. There were some butterflies stamped on it."
The house is so quiet that Harry can hear the wind singing outside. He can hear the cars that drive by slowly, the echoes of Claire's and Riley's laughter, now resonating like a ghost in the walls of the home. He visualizes Claire's blonde hair splayed on the couch's cushions as she rests there, enjoying a movie with her best friend and having no greater worries in her life.
Harry feels his stomach drop at each small notice, the signs of an existence that had been cruelly and violently stolen. Maybe, he too, is losing his youth to the brutal truth.
He tries to ignore his own feelings, focusing on the timeline of the case, concretizing in his brain with each bit of information. "At what time did she leave, approximately?"
"She had lunch with us, then left around two pm." Riley tells, tangling her fingers with her mother's, her knuckles turning white as she painfully remembers. She looks up at Harry, tears falling down her cheeks. "I never would have let her leave, if only I knew,"
Harry's heart breaks as he watches the impact of Claire's death on the lives of people around her. He can't help but to feel grief himself, although he had never met the young girl before her passing. It pains him in a way that it's frustrating, almost draining, if it didn't fuel him to investigate further.
"It's not your fault, Riley." Harry assures. "No one could have known, only the responsible for it. Don't let this weight fall on your shoulders, yeah? You were her best friend until the end, and nothing can change that."
Mrs. Mitchell grins appreciatively at Harry's words. Something in the atmosphere tells the investigator that the mother has been trying to tell her daughter the same thing.
Riley nods, timidly, wiping her tears. "I guess you're right."
Harry exits the home a few minutes after with heavy dread in his heart.
He drives back to the location where he had dropped Tomlinson off. The thought of the rude detective makes his stomach drop again, as if remembering the man was painful enough.
Harry liked to think of himself as a forgiving, light-hearted person, focused and intelligent enough to not let anyone or anything get in the way of his work. However, something in that case drew his most unfortunate traits out of him, one of them being his blinding annoyance.
Detective Tomlinson's unnecessary behavior was drastically dragging his mood down, and when he picks the man up from Thomas Hale's address, he can't help but wonder to himself why he was still following along with the detective's petulant manners.
Tomlinson enters the car as soon as Harry pulls over and slams the door with a frustrated sight. Harry grips the steering wheel to fight the urge to throw any rude comment.
"Nothing suspicious about the boyfriend." Tomlinson says. His voice echoes inside the car and Harry never wanted to be alone so badly as he does then. "He has a strong alibi; the lad was in his dad's car shop working late hours."
"Alright." Harry expresses simply, noting the information in his mind to add to his reports later on. "Where do I drop you off?" He questions, monotone, feeling Tomlinson's gaze burning a hole in his temple. He ignores it, looking towards the road.
The detective sighs. "At the station. Left my car there."
Only then, Harry glances sharply at the other man. "If you have a car, why did you make me drive you around?" He asks, failing to control his tone.
Tomlinson shrugs. "Didn't feel like driving." He responds in the unbothered tone that drives Harry absolutely mad.
The investigator feels himself snap and does nothing to control it. "So, you're saying that you've been rude to me since the first time you've looked at me, then you inserted yourself into my investigation while I still don't even know your name, and now you've made me into your private driver for kicks?"
Harry knows he's shouting by the end of his sentence. He can hear himself inside the echo of the car, along with the grief and dread that has been piling over his head since the moment he took the case. He doesn't find himself overwhelmed that often, but at that moment, he allows himself to feel it.
Tomlinson is quiet, but for Harry's unfortune, the silence doesn't last long. "I mean, we could drive in separate cars the next time, just thought it would be easier this way. No need for a fit, investigator."
Harry feels his blood boiling. Tomlinson seemed so detached from the case, almost dispassionate and apathetic, despite his efforts, all while Harry lost hours of sleep thinking about it. He couldn't work with that any longer. "I can't believe this. There's a brutal murderer on the loose, and yet you act like a fucking prick because you feel like it. It's bloody disrespectful, detective, not only to me, but to Claire as well."
After that, a deafening silence falls on the inside of the vehicle. Harry knows he reached low on that note, but he doesn't regret his words. There's a growing sadness living in his lungs since the moment he laid eyes on Claire's body, and it has been getting stronger every minute, every hour in this town.
He glances aside for a second, finding Tomlinson's eyes pointed straight ahead, his jaw clenching, but there's no anger in his expression. For Harry, it's somewhat satisfying, but he doesn't allow himself to feel any positive emotion for now.
When they reach the police station, Harry pulls over and unlocks the passage door without batting an eye to Tomlinson's direction. He hears the detective exit the car, not slamming the door this time, and then he leans over to the window after a second of hesitance.
"Look-" The man tries, his tone now apologetic, but Harry cuts it short.
"Save it, Tomlinson." He interrupts, voice tired and frustrated; from the case or for the man's behavior, he doesn't know.
Harry drives away and glances at Tomlinson's figure in the rear view mirror, until the city's appalling mist turns his silhouette into nothing.
Claire Denholm's funeral happens the next morning.
Harry is there, standing in between the other figures that circle Claire's casket. The wind carries away the words of the priest that speaks over her resting place, and the cries of loved ones are nothing but a tragic soundtrack to the sad scene.
The wreath of flowers above Claire's coffin is beautiful, Harry thinks, and he focuses his gaze on the bright chrysanthemums and lilies to avoid the distraught faces around him. His heart feels heavy, and his chest carries a sorrowful feeling that doesn't seem to leave. The ceremony is quiet, and the atmosphere holds a haunting doubt in everyone's mind. The air is tense and cold, due to the circumstances of her death. It's one of the most painful and dreadful experiences of Harry's life, he believes.
When her casket is lowered, his green eyes follow, until the young girl's eternal resting place swallows her body whole, behind the layers of the earth that someone should never have to be under at such a young age.
He recognizes Mrs. Denholm close by her daughter's tombstone, as she's settled inside the embrace of her husband, Claire's father. Harry can't contain his own tears when he realizes that the couple were forced to bury their only child.
He cries silently, letting his tears fall and instantly freeze his skin. Somewhere in his mind, he finds comfort at noticing the large quantity of people that attend her funeral. He sees Riley and her family, along with other teenagers that seem to have been Claire's friends too. He sees police offices, he sees Sheriff Lucas, and then he sees him.
Detective Tomlinson's eyes are lowered too, staring intensely at the hole in the ground that receives shoves full of dirt for what felt like forever. Harry notices his eye bags, deep, purplish against his tanned skin and his carved features. He doesn't feel the same anger as he did the day before; in fact, he feels relieved to see the detective there, present, aware of the impact left by the victim's passing.
Harry wonders if he had read the man in the wrong way. Maybe Tomlinson wasn't cold and distant after all, despite his rude behavior and petulant tone. He ignores the twinge of regret in his system, and when Tomlinson glances towards him for a split second, he looks away and fixates his eyes in the wreath of flowers, now placed above the disturbed dirt on the ground in front of Claire's gravestone.
When the ceremony is over, Harry stands from afar, respecting the space of people closer to Claire as they stay longer, almost wishing to offer her company for the last time.
The crowd begins to slowly dissipate as time passes, and soon there's just her family there, and Tomlinson, who walks towards Harry a few moments before Claire's parents leave. The detective stands beside Harry without saying a word, turned towards Claire's grave, as they now lean against a tree.
After minutes of silence, the man breaks the singing of the wind with a single word. "Louis."
Harry glances at the man like he's delusional, but he can't force himself to feel angry. Not when his heart is full of anguish. "What?"
The detective then looks up at Harry, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket, protected from the cold. "My name."
Harry simply nods as he glances at Louis. He turns to look at Claire's grave again, and his heart sinks when there isn't anyone standing there anymore. It's a raw realization, how lonely death really is, and how one day, he'll be in the same position.
"You were right." Louis says, his high-pitched voice quietened by emotions not much different from Harry's. "I was being a dickhead."
"I'm glad you noticed it." Harry speaks, but he recognizes no anger in his own tone, no poison or annoyance.
When Louis chuckles lightly, Harry forces himself look down at the man to confirm it, and for some reason, the investigator finds himself fighting a small smile of his own. "It's not a laughing matter."
"It really isn't." Louis shakes his head, grinning shallowly. When he gazes towards Harry again, his features are genuine, almost vulnerable, and for that, Harry is truly relieved. "Can we start this over?"
Harry is the one that chuckles this time. Comically, he sticks his hand out of his pocket, despite the burning cold. "Harry Styles, private investigator. I'm from London."
Louis smiles and shakes Harry's hand with exaggerated politeness. The touch is warm on Harry's skin, contrasted with the chilly temperatures, and his fingers tingle with the sudden wave of heat. "I'm Louis Tomlinson, police detective and I'm from, well, here."
When the pair retract their hands and turn back to look at Claire's final resting spot, it feels like ice melting down their spines. Harry shivers, and although he feels a bit lighter than before, the situation is nothing of the sort. Claire is still deceased, a murderer is roaming free, and there's a thousand questions hidden in the air, clouded by the city's mist.
"I still want to help with the case, if you allow me to." Louis speaks, looking at him.
And for some reason, Harry agrees. Maybe it's the way Louis' blue eyes are warm despite the gelid gush of wind that runs past them, or the dried tear-tracks staining his chiseled cheekbones, showing that he really cares.