If one thing was to be said, it was that the killer was an extremely handsome woman.
She had a feminine silhouette, with delicately flared hips and a well-endowed chest that Grell envied so. Silky crimson locks spilled out of a bun over rounded shoulders and down an elegantly curved back.
But the most fascinating thing about her was her obliviousness. You could tell from first glance that she both glorified herself and despised herself – just like Grell.
"Why aren't you dead?" was the first thing she asked, most likely wondering about at least 20-foot drop from the cathedral spire.
"Oh, darling, there's much more important things than that," Grell remarked. "Such as. . .being at the scene of the crime. You do realize that by now most people in this slum are waking, yes? It's past five in the morning."
"Fuck," the killer muttered. She immediately turned and wiped her blades on an already-stained cloth she drew from her surgeon's kit, and slid her knifes into the straps of the kit. The case clicked shut, and the murderess swept it up and started striding away. Her boots clicked against the cobblestone as the fog swept around her.
Grell followed her down the street and into the alleyways.
"Please stop following me," she called in a tense voice, not bothering so much as to look back at Grell.
She couldn't risk confronting her stalker and making too much noise and she couldn't be followed forever or take this strange – being – to her home. And obviously she couldn't let the stalker just do whatever they – it? – pleased; what if they went to Scotland Yard?
Grell was quite skilled at detecting others' thoughts of her – especially the negative ones. Not that she ever acted upon it.
"I think your motive at the moment is to create an alibi, yes? Clean off the blood and get back home, hm?"
The murderess continued striding irritably and the walk continued in silence for approximately 15 minutes. When she arrived at the Tower of London, a brougham drawn by two thoroughbreds was parked at the sidewalk, presumably waiting for her. She must have had quite some prestige to own a private brougham, Grell mused.
The noblewoman – Grell was assuming she was nobility to live in such luxury – quickly muttered a few words to the driver and jumped in the cab. She nonchalantly tossed her surgeon's kit onto the plush velvet seat across from her and shrugged her bloodstained coat off. Luckily it was a dark color, so bloodstains were hard to see. She was quite intelligent for a rich woman.
The madame patted the seat next to her.
"Well, are you coming?"
YOU ARE READING
An Indifferent Attitude Towards Murder
Fanfiction"Certainly not Grell's idea of real fun - bloodshed was entertaining to twisted creatures like them, who saw through shattered glass, so only the worst parts of reality were visible - but it was unexpected, and that was what made Angelina so compell...
