𝗥𝗲𝗰𝗶𝗽𝗲 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗮 𝗱𝗶𝘀𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗯𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆:
Two meddling teenagers and one very, very small town.
Slowly add a growing body count.
Mix well until mystery thickens.
One serial killer? Optional.
I think it's about time we reveal who the AFTER narrators are, yes?
Do drop a comment if you expected it.
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'a cold afternoon in phryne touk'
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IF THE CASE DOESN'T IRRITATE HIM TO DEATH, THE COLD WILL. It's sharp and fades in wet spots against his clothes as his body heat protects him from dying, and Detective Inspector Moore continue to grumble incoherent thoughts as he takes one final inhale of his cigarette- this one deep and burrowing, tasting the nicotine all the way down his throat, and exhaling. A sweet, familiar relief.
It relaxes him, easily putting his body at ease.
There are too many lies, he thinks, dropping the burnt out cig and twisting it with the bottom of his shoe. The snow sizzles and it immediately dies after it becomes wet. There are too many faces, too many open facts.
He hates the cold, really, he does. Coming up here from the sunny side of California, especially for the winter season where it's nonexistent, was definitely not a position he wanted to be in. But the cold helps him wake up, sans the irritation. Inhaling the sharp, icy air makes it easier for his brain to wake up, to unscramble the scrambled.
To put together his thoughts of the case, the people involved- its victims, its perpetrators, its wannabe-sleuths - and make sense of it using an invisible, red string. Tying it together, weaving- through, over, loop, backward - and seeing close how preciously close he is to the end. He can almost taste it. How it'll perfectly fit into a bouncy, perfect little bow.
Just a few more, he thinks. Just a few more.
But what will the few more cost him? And the others?
There are too many involved. Too many lies weaved in between truths, too many faces and names intertwined.
But he had to try.
After all, it was ending soon.
He exhales roughly again, choking a little at the biting cold that exchanged from his breath. "Fuck," he mutters. His lips are frozen, and he can feel icicles forming from the wet patches stuck on his clothes. "Gah."
