The Little Dove #2 ✔️

36. Who Are You, Edmund Creed?

CHAPTER 36: Who Are You, Edmund Creed?
(MELANIE'S POV)

I spent three excruciating long weeks trying to identify where exactly the Fitzgerald Brotherhood of Troubled Youth institute was. When I finally did intercept a grid line, through a mere paper trail as pathetic as it was, the more secretive it was, caught my attention. So, I set up a rather unauthorised visit from the local PD, essentially making the headmistress of the Institute believe I was studying a specialised case that required the utmost of confidentiality in the mix.

It was cold, it was freezing cold as I walk towards the building, the asylum, another fucking asylum-looking building, only this one-it wasn't empty, there were lights on, there were people, students, adults inside. I fold my fluffy trench coat tighter around my body and I move forward, my head hammering before me at the sign above, The Fitzgerald Brotherhood of Troubled Youth.

It was engraved deep on the gravestone.

F. B. Y.

I took one deep breath and another step forward towards the door, with Roman locks and strange markings I couldn't recognise. The door opens, revealing a women my size, but not my age, "Mrs McLaren, it's lovely of you to visit so soon." She was an older woman, white hair with the occasional black strands, a tightened turtleneck with a nun pearl in the middle of her collar, I nod once, she gestures me inside.

I turn to her, "I prefer Detective Elizabeth, if you'd be so kind." I use an American accent, using a monotonic tone of voice. She nods strictly as my jacket is removed by one of the guards, who strictly stare anywhere, but my eyes. Which were green, green contacts and a brunette wig, short with professional curls along my shoulders.

The headmistress smiles tightly, "Welcome Detective Elizabeth, my name is Headmistress Zoysia." She nods my way, gesturing down the darkened hall, the lights were old fashioned, everything looked freshly polished as I glance down when one of the boy's in a tight grey one-suit stands, lonely and watching me.

The headmistress notices and gives me a tight look, "This is Kahn, one of our youngest. Poor boy, he struggles with his speech. Don't mind his staring, he does that as an observational tool, and expresses it in his love for the arts." She tells me, gesturing to one of the guards, who closes the door on the child in one of the dark rooms, with one lone, cranky bed, no desks, paperwork flown on the floor.

I furrow my eyebrows and turn back to the headmistress, "I understand you have set paper records of past substituents here, that is what I've come to look for, but I'd like to understand what it is the children are learnt, among wither extra curricular activities that have been rumoured?" I ask her.

She pauses in her short, sturdy steps, turning to me, "Of course, the extra curricular are used specifically for sixteen years and older, their rounds help endorse this facility, as you can see, this is not the kind of institute many foster parents will come to. We help in brain development, exercise attributes and perhaps a few religions along the way, to properly discipline the children." She tells me, glancing down the hall as she lifts a heavy set of keys and opens the door.

The sound of cheers on the other side worry me as I look inside, she moves in, closing the door, but thankfully not locking it as she gestures to the window, "We have many American celebrities who contribute anonymously inside the unit, not illegally of course, the American head PD have allowed our source of discipline to remain over the years." She says, watching me closely as I give a long long down into the ring, that looked more like a cage in a secluded, abandoned swimming pool, with VIP stations above, cheering for the current fight down below.

She smiles over to me, the headmistress, "You already know of our ways, do you not?"

I give the glass a stoic raised eyebrow, "Doesn't mean I've seen this in action. Are the students here given appropriate medical attention afterwards?" I ask her. Holding the urge to shove her head against the glass as she smiles strangely down at the ring.