to LARP her favorite TV shows?
“Have you spoken with William since the dinner?” she asked.
“Alex called him after . . .” Instead of finishing his thought, the man broke down in a fit of sobs.
Crap. Moorely hunched forward, looking down. She waited a few moments before trying to probe again, but he just sat there, folded over himself. Ree sat up as straight as she could, armoring herself with the role of the FBI agent, immune to the raw human emotion of a man broken by grief.
“Mr. Moorely, are you all right?”
He made another short choking sound, then breathed deep. He sat up and wiped his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
The investigative questions had come easily, popping up in her mind like she was being fed a script. This time the words were her own. “No need to apologize. It’s the only sane thing to do.” He nodded, so she continued. “Can I see her room?”
Probably eager to do anything other than talk, the bedraggled man stood and led her upstairs to a room decorated in posters and signs that read Parents Keep Out and Twihards Only . Ree opened the door and took in the room all at once, like a panorama photo in 1080p plastered in her mind as she unleashed the Sherlock Brain.
Slightly messy. Pastel colors. Layers of blankets and colorful sheets on a simple wooden bed frame. White faux-wood desk with shelves built in. A flat-panel screen and desktop below. Speakers flanking the screen.
The pop-up text returned: Average media consumption.
Small TV on a dresser. Guitar in the corner on a stand. Posters of sparkling vampires, androgynous boys, and famous divas lined the walls in equal proportions.
Sexually inexperienced.
Everything was as it should be for a normal teenage girl.
Except for, that is, the bloodstain on the floor beside the bed. It was two feet wide, slightly oval-shaped.
For a moment, Ree saw Angela’s body on the ground, in photo-realistic detail, the blood pooling beneath.
Ree closed her eyes, forcing the sight out of her mind. She opened them again, and the body was gone.
Died here. Wasn’t moved, popped up in Sherlock text.
Ree scanned the room for another few seconds, taking in data. Nothing was relevant.
No signs of struggle.
More Sherlock text: No secondary pool from a bloodied weapon.
Ree returned to her own thought processes, holding back the Sherlock Brain.
Where was the weapon? How quickly had the parents found her—what had she done that would let her bleed out without anyone hearing? Eastwood had said there was a trace of magic on the death, but what kind, to what effect?
She was floundering in deep water here. She felt her Sherlock-ness receding, and looked around the room one more time, her eyes passing over a silver locket she hadn’t noted as relevant before. A bit of text popped into shape above the dresser, reading Locket, fading out as soon as it appeared.
Ree gave the locket a once-over. It contained an old picture of a woman who could have been Angela’s mother or grandmother. Ree briefly searched for connections, then filed the image away for later.
With the Sherlock Brain gone, she was left with exhaustion and the sense of needing to smoke. Which, since she hadn’t smoked since college, she blamed on the detective. Use the effects, get the needs. Made sense, if in a disturbing way.
Eastwood damn well better teach her every single trick and give her a pony for this.
She stepped around the room, taking extra care to avoid the stain on the carpet. Moorely stayed at the door, like he couldn’t bring himself to cross the threshold.
With all the magic gone, Ree was left on her own. Pulling the door partly closed, she tried to assemble her thoughts, figure out how to put the pieces together.
What did she need? Emails and other online messages, maybe lists of friends to talk to for a third-party perspective.
Ree opened the door a crack, seeing Mr. Moorely standing outside, his eyes unfocused.
“If possible, I’d like to get access to her
“Have you spoken with William since the dinner?” she asked.
“Alex called him after . . .” Instead of finishing his thought, the man broke down in a fit of sobs.
Crap. Moorely hunched forward, looking down. She waited a few moments before trying to probe again, but he just sat there, folded over himself. Ree sat up as straight as she could, armoring herself with the role of the FBI agent, immune to the raw human emotion of a man broken by grief.
“Mr. Moorely, are you all right?”
He made another short choking sound, then breathed deep. He sat up and wiped his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
The investigative questions had come easily, popping up in her mind like she was being fed a script. This time the words were her own. “No need to apologize. It’s the only sane thing to do.” He nodded, so she continued. “Can I see her room?”
Probably eager to do anything other than talk, the bedraggled man stood and led her upstairs to a room decorated in posters and signs that read Parents Keep Out and Twihards Only . Ree opened the door and took in the room all at once, like a panorama photo in 1080p plastered in her mind as she unleashed the Sherlock Brain.
Slightly messy. Pastel colors. Layers of blankets and colorful sheets on a simple wooden bed frame. White faux-wood desk with shelves built in. A flat-panel screen and desktop below. Speakers flanking the screen.
The pop-up text returned: Average media consumption.
Small TV on a dresser. Guitar in the corner on a stand. Posters of sparkling vampires, androgynous boys, and famous divas lined the walls in equal proportions.
Sexually inexperienced.
Everything was as it should be for a normal teenage girl.
Except for, that is, the bloodstain on the floor beside the bed. It was two feet wide, slightly oval-shaped.
For a moment, Ree saw Angela’s body on the ground, in photo-realistic detail, the blood pooling beneath.
Ree closed her eyes, forcing the sight out of her mind. She opened them again, and the body was gone.
Died here. Wasn’t moved, popped up in Sherlock text.
Ree scanned the room for another few seconds, taking in data. Nothing was relevant.
No signs of struggle.
More Sherlock text: No secondary pool from a bloodied weapon.
Ree returned to her own thought processes, holding back the Sherlock Brain.
Where was the weapon? How quickly had the parents found her—what had she done that would let her bleed out without anyone hearing? Eastwood had said there was a trace of magic on the death, but what kind, to what effect?
She was floundering in deep water here. She felt her Sherlock-ness receding, and looked around the room one more time, her eyes passing over a silver locket she hadn’t noted as relevant before. A bit of text popped into shape above the dresser, reading Locket, fading out as soon as it appeared.
Ree gave the locket a once-over. It contained an old picture of a woman who could have been Angela’s mother or grandmother. Ree briefly searched for connections, then filed the image away for later.
With the Sherlock Brain gone, she was left with exhaustion and the sense of needing to smoke. Which, since she hadn’t smoked since college, she blamed on the detective. Use the effects, get the needs. Made sense, if in a disturbing way.
Eastwood damn well better teach her every single trick and give her a pony for this.
She stepped around the room, taking extra care to avoid the stain on the carpet. Moorely stayed at the door, like he couldn’t bring himself to cross the threshold.
With all the magic gone, Ree was left on her own. Pulling the door partly closed, she tried to assemble her thoughts, figure out how to put the pieces together.
What did she need? Emails and other online messages, maybe lists of friends to talk to for a third-party perspective.
Ree opened the door a crack, seeing Mr. Moorely standing outside, his eyes unfocused.
“If possible, I’d like to get access to her
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