Tweetie

8

It had officially been 24 hours since Hazel started her work at The Cafe and it was now Monday.

The previous day, as busy as it was for a Sunday, didn't hold much for her. Not much for evidence, anyways. She learned a lot, she learned how to make coffee, tea, how to use a cash register properly and how talking with even one of the seemingly popular boys would result in constant comments.

After she had spoken to Joel for the first time, she began to notice the hushed voices from school kids. They were all along the same lines of 'who is she?' 'Why is she speaking to Joel?' 'He probably just asked for food or something, right?' 'he wouldn't talk to someone like her, would he? I mean... Look at her. ​​​​​​' That last one was one of the more hard-hitting comments she had heard.

She rarely questioned how she looked. She didn't go to school, she worked with only two people and often times found herself in solitude. So when she wore odder clothes, printed shirts with funny looking cats, oversized jumpers that hung too far down her arms and swung further than her hands, no makeup and mismatched socks with dumb designs of dinosaurs or sometimes carrots that reached her knees, she didn't feel self-conscious. In truth, she liked dressing weird. A few years ago, she wouldn't ever have considered it, she would wear what she was told to and sit quietly as she had for years. Now she had her own choice, she loved wearing whatever she wanted.

So she did.

She stood in the cafe, comfortable under a green jumper that was basically a dress with how big it was on her. On the back, it read 'Mothman for president'. Her favourite jumper and it was paired with equally as chunky shorts that you would be more likely to see in the early 2000's than you would in the current year.

The day was a quiet one, the sort of day she figured would be common. So she prepared herself. In her bag there were files, evidence to look through, not that there was much. But it was all she had. And books. Though, they weren't for pleasure, unfortunately. Even when she read, it was for work. They were simple non-fiction books written entirely in French about subjects regarding criminal's psychology. She bought the French version just for fun. She rarely got time to do her own thing, so she took every chance she could. Whether it be translating books or simply playing 'don't step on the cracks' as she walked down the street.

"Is it always this quiet?"

"Only when you're around," Archie answered from his seat by the window, watching out for any approaching customers in the early morning. "People see you, then they turn and run."

"Watch your mouth, boy," Hazel retorted, pressing her palms against the cold wood of the counter that felt surprisingly smooth despite the rough-looking texture of the dark wood. "I'll fire you."

"No, you won't."

"Yes, I will."

"You like me too much," he laughed.

"Then I'll stop bringing you coffee."

"You wouldn't," he gasped, his eyes widening.

"I would," she returned, smirking deviously in her blatant lie.

There was another laugh, a soft one that floated around the room and emitted from the approaching man who had just stepped out of the open kitchen door, his apron already covered in flour from working hard all morning to make fresh food. Hazel considered for just a moment helping him in the kitchen. However, her work wouldn't allow it. She loved baking, but she needed to listen to gossip and conversations in the hopes that she would find a clue somewhere.

"You two," Stewart shook his head, "aren't what I expected."

"What did you expect?" Hazel turned, her head tilted towards her shoulder.