Nightmare on Broadway (California Dreaming Sequel)

Prologue

 Hi guys! This is the first chapter of the California Dreaming sequal...this is just a snippet, a tester chapter if you will...the actual story will be set a year after this chapter, but I haven't written any of that so....until then! Thank you :D xxxx COMMENT! Oh! Also, do we like the title of this new one? let me know :D 

P.S. checkout MidsummerFay's book, its awesome :)

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  “From what we’ve heard, a young man has been killed in this Beverly Hills suburb earlier this evening, ” the anchorman held the heavy microphone in his hand and adjusted the knot of his tie, glancing behind him and gesturing to the large, white house behind him. There was blue and white police tape encircling the front yard and officers were frequently entering and leaving the building. 

   “Although we haven’t received an official statement from the police department, the neighbors reported that they heard an alarm going off at around 8 o’clock, we’ve been waiting on scene for over 2 hours now, but there’s still no sign of a body,” he reported sternly, his face falling into one straight line, his eyes level on the camera lens. 

   The streetlights were emitting a dull, yellow light over the crowd of journalists and newscasters, making everyone look tired and ill. The squad cars which were pulled into the driveway, still had their lights on, flashing steadily, persistently, throwing blue and red light across the windows of the house. 

   “Wait! Excuse me!” The newsman shouted for a detective, entering the scene in a smart, charcoal grey suit, his gold badge clipped to the front pocket. “Detective! Can we have a statement?” He asked, following the solemn investigator and grabbing his attention. 

   “I’m sorry, we can’t release anything,” he frowned, tucking a lock of long, salt and pepper hair behind his ear. 

   “There must be something, is it true there’s been a murder?” The reporter held the microphone in front of the detective’s mouth, urging a response from the severe looking man. 

   “There was a break in,” the police officer sighed, grimacing and rubbing at his stubbly cheek, wearily. “There was a death, a teenage boy, that’s all I can say,” he said, eager to end the discussion. 

   “Thank you, sir,” the reporter thanked the detective as he slipped off, nodding curtly and making his way through the crowds of curious neighbors. He ducked under the police tape and went to the front door, knocking twice, letting his presence be known, before entering the building. 

   “Wait, I’m getting something here,” the anchorman’s gaze drifted to the man behind the camera and he held his finger to his left ear, listening as someone back at his office whispered new information into his ear. “I’m being told that we’ve identified the owner of the house, the Cheung family, the parents have been waiting outside for their daughter, Jia, who was at home on her own when the perp broke in.” 

   The crowd were muttering to each other excitedly, pretending to be concerned when in fact, they were all just too nosy for their own good. Quite a few housewives were gathered around, clinging to their white, flannel dressing gowns and clicking their false nails together. A police officer escorted the tall, austere man with his small, fretting wife to a large, black SUV, before other officers attempted to pull the crowd apart. The front door began to open, and the detective emerged first, loitering in the porch before ushering out a young girl with someone whom everyone assumed was the boyfriend.  

   She looked pale, and fragile, being shielded from the aggressive photographers and reporters who were yelling her name, teasing her with unfair accusations. As she got closer to the end of the path, you could see her shaking arms, her tear stained cheeks. The adolescent boy looked less distraught, and more sallow, as if he’d seen something which he couldn’t take back, something rather...nauseating. 

   They reached the sidewalk, trying to get past the newscasters to the black 4x4, with dark tinted windows to conceal them from public view. Reporters were yelling at her, barking questions, unqualified remarks into her face, grabbing at her arms. The boyfriend swatted their slimy claws away and opened the car door for her, pressing one palm into the small of her back. 

   “Jia!” The anchorman yelled, catching her attention, forcing her eyes up to his, “Are you ready to accept the consequences of what you’ve done?” He inquired, shoving the microphone under her nose. She opened her large, doe eyes slowly; her expression was stone cold, inscrutable. 

   “I’ve done nothing wrong.”