Trust No Bitch: Part 3

Alice Jenkins: Saturday, 7th February, 2016

11:47PM, 13/06/15

Your sister tells me she's with you.

11:50PM, 13/06/15

This is Dylan King. Don't have your number saved. Who are you?

11:50PM, 13/06/15

You're going to wish you knew.

11:51PM, 13/06/15

Tell me who you are or I'll block the number.

11:51PM, 13/06/15

You're not going to block me. You're going to bring her to me. Your sister, Cleo.

11:53PM, 13/06/15

And why would I do that? lmao. Piss off.

11:53PM, 13/06/15

Because I know what you did to the other one. And unless you do what I tell you, soon the police will know too.

With a final glance over the messages that Dylan had received from the Supplier the night that they'd murdered Cleo, Alice had grimaced and then slid his stolen phone under a still comatose Clara's pillow; they had decided on the drive to see her in the hospital that it would be best to leave the phone there, since not only would it be safe from Dylan whilst they decided exactly what to do with it, but it would allow Clara to see the texts as soon as she woke up. Leaning back on Clara's bedside table, Alice had turned to a vague Lilly and a despondent looking Gemma, whose typically expressive facial features remained determinedly flat.

"You could just tell, couldn't you?" She said to them both. "That he had done something bad from the second we started questioning him. That boy was Freudian slipping all over the place."

"Freudian slipping?" Lilly mumbled.

"You know, unintentionally revealing something. Comes from Sigmund Freud's theories of the unconscious mind. You really need to brush up on your trivia, Lilly."

"I, like, trusted Dylan." Lilly just said wanly in response. She did not seem to have registered Alice's comment, let alone have been offended by it. "He seemed like the only normal person in that family."

"Well, trust is a dangerous thing." Alice had murmured dejectedly, staring down at Clara, her chest inflating and deflating rhythmically, the rest of her still. She almost envied the placidity, but didn't dare to tell her therapist, Colleen, about that during their session later that day, nor about the text she had sent to the dealer she'd been using before she'd been hospitalised. It hadn't been for cocaine, just speed, but taking it again later that night, was like the first sip of water after a five mile hike. At first, resplendent, and then, just compulsory, typical. Bland, even. She had supposed, upon leaving the psychiatric ward, that her stay there may have helped her a little; obviously, she had been mistaken. Before she knew it, it was 1AM and she was bringing her whiteboard out from under the bed, lining up her board pens, scissors and blue tack, and the photos she had printed out of all her "suspects" following the therapy session. Popped a couple more pills, dry, felt them sticking temporarily in her throat, like pebbles down a narrow drain pipe after all that time, and then continued, laying out the newspaper clippings on Mia and Dec's death, along with the screenshots from Sasha Evans' blog, all long forgotten. After thoroughly inspecting them all, selecting the parts she believed to be the most important, and then sticking them to the whiteboard, she moved onto a timeline of Cleo's whereabouts that night. First to be stuck up was the photo of Cleo at the top, the one used by the newspapers, dressed like your typical bridesmaid and for once in her life lacking the dark make up, the razor thin gaze and the usual sneer. Instead, on her face was an exuberant, if the slightest bit yellowing from all the cigarettes, smile and upon her magnificent head, a wreath of white flowers. Alice smiled fondly at it before picking up a whiteboard marker and penning in the first time beneath it; 9:15PM, marking their arrival at the party, and Cleo's abandonment of her and the other 3. Then from the bottom of the photo she drew an arrow pointing downwards, and at the end of it, 2 more times: 9:40PM and 10:00PM. She hesitated, before picking up the next photo; it was one of herself. After all, she had been the next person Cleo had spoken to or argued with, rather, that night, at what point between those times she could not be sure, and whilst she had no idea what had become of Cleo since then, it seemed essential that she map out every possible encounter. Stuck underneath her own face, then, was Clara's, and below hers, her brother George's, the photo taken from an old holiday in which he wore a gaudy Hawaiian shirt (ironically, he at the time claimed) and was beaming proudly at the camera. Further down, was the name of the taxi driver, Neil, and then beneath him, Austin King, his photo taken from the same wedding in which Cleo was the bridesmaid, only he was the groom. The final photo, Dylan King, ended up at what was almost the very bottom of the board, with room for only a couple more photos. The Supplier (a rectangle and then a question mark within it) and a suspected helper.