Chapter 1, In With the New.

How did I get into this mess? A voice inside my head asks. My whole body is pulsing with adrenaline and fear as I hang on to the cable with dear life. My fingers numb, they turn deep red as sweat drips to loosen my grip. Then I look down—beneath me, a raging sea crashes into rocky coastline. The wind sways my body left and right as I hear Irene grunting above me. I hear a loud thud—she’s pinned to the ground—yet Irene still calls out my name.

***

I EXIT THE BUS AND TAKE IN A LARGE BREATH. Some students already have someone waiting for them, then there are the few who walk where I’m headed—Brightland High’s dormitory. I grab my luggage and follow them into the building. There, I’m greeted by Mr. Mallen, our old security guard who always sits by the lobby.

“Afternoon Marcus, how was Bali?” He tipped his hat.

“It was just as you said.”

“hot and humid?”

“A lot of mosquitoes.” I shake the empty bottle of bug spray I had tucked in the side pocket of my backpack.

He laughs but then makes a solemn face. Mr. Mallen then hands me a white sheet of paper. I read the contents—pause—then read it again as if my dreary eyes were playing tricks on me.

“The school is evicting me! You’re joking, right Mr. Mallen?” My face perplexes, and I give him a look of distraught. “I mean, I’ve just gotten back—the first thing I’d want to do is kick back—not get kicked out!”

“I hate to be the one telling you this Marcus, but it’s true.” He leads me down the hallway as he explains what happened.

Apparently, the morning I headed out for the airport, in my haste, I left the gas open just a little bit in my stove—and as days went by gas leaked in my room. The windows were closed and the only place where it could escape was under the door.

“—then, last Thursday, boom—” He explosively gestured his hands. “—your room caught on fire.”

Curious, I asked, “do you know what caused it?”

“Could’ve honestly been anything.” He scratches the side of his temple. “Fire department surmised it was a still-lit cigarette thrown by your door that caused the spark, but no one knows for sure, though—any evidence of that was burned, along with your belongings.”

We stop at the broom closet. Inside, besides cleaning supplies—it stored what was left of my belongings. Mr. Mallen hands over a small scrunched-up leather bag that seemed to be the only survivor. I take a peek, it was nearly empty—but I see a tin container, my old harmonica, and an old wallet.

“This is all?” I ask.

“You should be lucky no one got hurt.” Mr. Mallen leads us back to the lobby.

“Can I at least see the room for myself?”

“Sorry Marcus, that entire section of the dorms is closed for renovation.”

“What about moving me to another room?”

“No can do either, half the students who lived around you were moved to the remaining vacant rooms, and the other half either moved into an apartment or moved back in with their families.”

Fantastic. I shake my head as I fall on one of the seats and let out a large sigh. Then Mr. Mallen sits behind the counter to continue his paperwork. I had originally planned to spend the rest of the week in bed, but I guess fate had other plans. About ten minutes pass by, and I decide to leave the building. Bringing literally everything that I owned with me.

—and as I thought my day couldn’t get any worse, it started snowing. Redvern City is at that time of the year. Quickly opening my suitcase, I grab the one piece of clean clothing I had left. The jacket that I never got the chance to wear in hot Bali. As the cold started to set in, I selected to go to the laundromat to wash these filthy clothes. Then at the very least, I wouldn’t have to worry about sleeping dirty.

Though, on my way there, I remembered that I was just about to pass Richard Gilrow’s usual hangout place. He lives in the room right next to me, or he did rather. But he must be pissed at me, and his gang will be too. Best avoid that street and make a detour.

Thankfully, I managed to reach the laundromat safely, and I remembered that Cordelia Scott’s was opened just across the street. Putting my clothes in the washer-dryer, I retreat there to further think of my predicament.

“Welcome to Cordelia Scott’s.” The solo barista said, still concentrating on brewing her drink to even notice who had stepped in.

I quickly shut the door as to not let the nice warm air inside escape. The café had a sort of integrated log design, the floors, tables, and chairs were mostly wood—the shelves on the walls, however, were covered with objects that held much photo ability. It was cozy, homey even. The coffee here wasn’t too bad either—though I don’t drink it unless I have a big test I have to study for.

“Hey, Cordelia.” I said, approaching the counter. Instantly hit with a sharp smell of roasted coffee beans. Then I notice the soft jazz playing from the speaker by the counter.

“Marcus, is that you?” She said, wiping her hands on her black apron as she approached the register.

“The usual latte, please, one pump syrup, two pumps—actually, make it four pumps hazelnut.”

“Four pumps? I thought after Bali you’d wanna lay back and take it easy for a bit.” She said as I hand over cash, then as the register dings, she starts with my drink. As our conversation continues, I hear the sound of sizzling water, and steam fill into a cup. The smell of coffee is more prevalent now than when I entered.

“That was the plan—until I got evicted.” I followed her movement to the side. “A fire went down in my room.”

“That was you?” Cordelia paused and her eyes stared back at me. “It was all over the news, ‘Brightland Dorm Almost Burns Down’. You okay?”

I shrug, and just about then—she was finished with my latte.

“You’re always welcome to crash in the café, I’ve got a sofa in the break room.”

“Thanks. I’ll think about it.”

I take my latte and sit by the window. Smoke rises from my mug and fogs up the cold glass. I see people down the street, waiting for the bus to arrive, sitting and standing in the cold weather. In a contrast—the heater in the café is as powerful as ever—I felt the need to take my jacket off and hang it behind my seat, then I notice several other people in the café. Three girls sit adjacent to me—another by the bathroom, clearly engrossed in their own interests, two men sat by the entrance also enjoying each other’s company—and then the one more person who just entered—conversing with Cordelia.

I take in the ambiance of the café as I rethink what I should do. One option would be to rent out that cheap apartment North of Bellphone Centre—but the downside is that it’s too far away from school—thanks to my scholarship the school gives me compensation for transport—but its’s nowhere near its worth—and no way I’m walking all the way. Cordelia’s sofa is a good option—and I just might have to settle for that unless someone would come up to me and offer a place to stay that’s both cheap and near the school.

Halfway done with my coffee, I took notice of what I had in the leather bag. I shake it, and the contents rattle. The old wallet—Haiden said it belonged to dad, it even still has some old receipts that he kept for some reason. My harmonica—I give it a good blow, but some of the notes sound off, the metal must’ve gone bad. Better chuck that out later. Finally, the tin container, inside was—

“—hey, want to live with me?” A woman suddenly sat down beside me, ruining my train of thought just now.

I close the box and stuff it back into my bag. The woman had maple-colored hair hidden under her green-festive beanie. Sprinkled with snow bits—her scarf was also of the same motif. She lowered her mask to reveal a pale-skinned face, her eyes reflecting the ocean’s color. She smiled at me, her teeth white as bone. I almost got lost in her beauty that I regrettably forgot to answer. But could anyone blame me?

“I live in a small office-apartment just a few blocks from Brightland High.” She said, extending her hand out.

I shake it. Her skin felt soft to the touch and was warm despite the snowy climate. Her nails neatly cut, like a fine gem—hold on a second, she mentioned something about—

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“—Brightland? How’d you know I went to Brightland?” I let go of her hand and stand up. My eyebrow is raised, and I tilt my head—embodying a confused look. The woman gestures her hands to reassure me, but she just made me more paranoid.

“Listen, Marcus, it’s—”

Then suddenly before she starts her explanation, from behind us, a different woman’s deafening scream could be heard.

THE LOUD SCREAM JUST INTERRUPTED MY EXPLANATION TO MARCUS. The café suddenly turned silent, even the soft jazz in the background stopped playing. All heads turn to the source of the sound—the bathroom.

I rush from my seat and bang on the thick wooden door. I call out to the person inside, no response. The rest of the people just watch me. Some are even still sitting, the barista isn’t even getting the spare key.

“Is there a spare key?” I step back a little to look and see if there’s a second entrance to the room. Judging by the frame, the bathroom is about two meters squared. No way there could be a ventilation shaft big enough to crawl through.

“N-no, both of them are on the same keychain that’s on the other side of the door.” The barista trembles.

“A window?” I ask, but she shakes her head again. Even if there was one, no way I could fit through.

Breaking the door down is another option—actually, this door is too secured into the wall. I can’t do it myself. But I’ll have to try. I ram my body on the door. The pain in my bad leg starts to come back—today was a bad day to skip my meds. I call out and gesture to Marcus, but he just watches, stunned in place. Clearly, he’s no help.

Suddenly, I can hear a breath gasping from the other side. The woman inside is still alive, but there isn’t much time. Unless my leg magically heals itself, breaking the door down won’t work, nor is there a spare key to open it. Guess that leaves one option.

“Paperclips, paperclips!” I yell out for everyone to hear me. They think I’m crazy. “Do you have paperclips!” I scream at the barista, gesturing my hands desperately for that small piece of metal.

“There should be one under in that drawer.” She timidly points in the direction of the register, and I bolt there, shoving her out of the way.

I furiously open the drawer, turning it inside out to find what I need—which I did. They were thin, but I think I can make it work. I take two paperclips and shape them into a small hook, and the other into sort of a small crowbar. I then insert both of them into the keyhole and start jiggling.

Think, what should I do next? First I keep the tensioning tool secured, then start to apply a bit of pressure while I use the raking tool to lift the individual pins. I feel about six pins inside, what’s next? After all of them are lifted, I just turn the paperclip to unlock it.

Click

The clips turn. Without much wait, I swing open the door, revealing the woman inside, sitting on the toilet. Her arms and legs were slumped towards the ground like a ragdoll kept in storage.

“Are you all right? Do you know who did this to you?” I kneel before her.

I grab toilet paper and gently lift her head, and her mouth moves slightly—she’s trying to say something. I bring my ear close to try and hear her words. Then blood spews, coloring her already rosy lips a deeper shade of crimson.

I’m too late. I lift her sleeves one by one starting with her arms. Nothing. I lift her long johns, also nothing. Odd. Then at the backside of her neck—I uncover her hair and see what I was looking for. A tattoo shaped like a simply drawn flower.

“The mark of the water lily.” I knew it, another one.

***

“You sure took your time, Inspector Mel.” I said, irritatingly, shaking her gloved hand. Behind her was the detective in charge of this string of murders. “—and you’re here too, detective John.” I shake his hand as well, but squint as he unexpectedly tightens his grip.

“Of course, we don’t need some fifteen-year-old to contaminate the crime scene.” He sends me off with a mocking gesture as he leans in for a closer look at the body. I’m actually eighteen.

“You’re right, I think I’ll leave it to the professionals.” Hate him, It didn’t matter what John thought though, I already had everything of importance anyway.

“Just don’t mind him, I’m sure he’s glad to see you again.” Mel gives me a warm smile—then changes into a pair of latex gloves. “Thanks again for helping out last Thursday—and by the way, how’s your leg healing?”

“Still kicking.” I say, she then replies by laughing at my remark. Good to see her really.

Inspector Mel then stepped into the cramped bathroom, along with John and his posse of intern CSI. In the meantime, Marcus seems to have egressed—the police dragged him out not so long ago. I head outside.

I wear my jacket and exit the café—a small crowd formed without me noticing, luckily though—the officers have already set up a perimeter of tape to block out most of the ruckus. The barista from before stood outside and is being questioned—never mind, she takes notice of me and approaches right away. She seems distressed.

“Hey!” She calls out to me.

“Yes?” I reply, she wanted to ask me something, but I speak first. “If you’re worried about your involvement in this particular case, there’s nothing to fear. I doubt you had much to do anyway—except for the tardiness of not providing a spare key. The victim was simply just at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

I can’t stay any longer, I have to find Marcus.

“But what about—” She tries to speak, but I interrupt once more as I walk off.

“Congratulations on getting engaged by the way.” I wave at her and bid her farewell. Hopefully, that was enough to distract her for a moment.

The crowd then thickens behind me, engulfing the surrounding area with a sea of people curious about what event went down in the café. I, however, was more interested in the laundromat just across and to the right of Cordelia Scott’s. I step in.

THE WOMAN STEPPED INTO THE LAUNDROMAT TO LOOK FOR ME. How did she even know I was in here? I bury my nose into the newspaper and wait it out. Maybe it’s only a coincidence that she’s here, and I don’t think she notices me yet.

I read about the newly constructed lighthouse that’s just a few hours away from Redvern. Then I read a little bit about the fire that broke out in Brightland’s dormitory. I wonder why they’re still talking about that—shouldn’t it be old news by now?

According to witness and security guard, Thomas Mallen, the fire broke out in the middle of the night when most of the dorm’s inhabitants were asleep. Inspector Melinda Walter was luckily—

“—Melinda Walter was luckily nearby and was able to assess the situation accordingly?” The line I was reading just now was quoted by someone behind me. It was her!

“Nearby? More like nearly done with her beer.” The woman continued to sit down and scoff upon hearing such news.

“So, back to our conversation before—do you want to come and live with me?” She asked a second time just as nonchalantly as the first—as if that question was on par with asking how my day was.

“What?” I rebutted. “I don’t even know your name, yet you’re asking me to come and live with you!”

She stops and stares blankly for a moment, she’s clearly thinking her words now. Then she looks back at me and extends her hand.

“Call me Irene, Just Irene.” I take her hand. But if it weren’t for my homelessness predicament right now, I would really not want to hear more of this stranger’s offer.

“Irene,” I say, “—and for some reason, you already know my name?” I decide to hear her out. Judging by what I saw from the window, she looked to interact well with law enforcement, meaning she probably isn’t a dangerous person.

“Oh, yes, I know that and many more—for example, I know that you have nowhere else to stay, as well as you go to Brightland High, am I correct?”

“Suppose you are. May I know how you got that information?” I retract my hand.

“Well, I saw.” She said. “When I walked into the café I was immediately drawn to your attire.”

“My clothes?”

“More like—the absence of clothing. It was pretty cold out there yet the only thing you brought to combat the weather was a cotton jacket. Your shirt is dirty and wrinkly, must be uncomfortable. What would someone do when all of their clothes are filthy?” She pauses and takes a look around. “Wash them—in this case, you went to the laundromat, and then decided to sip coffee while you waited.”

“All right, you got that part right, but that doesn’t explain how you guessed I went to Brightland.”

“That part was easier. I saw your tan line.” She said, taking my hand and raising my sleeve. To my surprise, there was one—yet it was subtle. How did she even see it when even I didn’t notice myself?

“It was when you went to sip your coffee, your sleeve retracted just a bit.”

“I see.”

“Moving on, your tan line was a bit suspicious considering it’s the middle of winter—you wouldn’t be getting a line like this if you weren’t someplace hot all year round, tropical. Were you out on vacation? Unlikely, someone as young as you wouldn’t be going overseas during the holiday season, and if you were—you wouldn’t be coming back until the season ends. Which meant your trip was planned—delicately planned. Probably a school trip, and since there aren’t many schools in the area—that leaves Brightland High, with their infamous roundabout trip to Bali.”

“Impressive. But I don’t see how that was easier than suggesting I went to the laundromat first.” Then she shrugged. But clearly, it was all a lie, a ruse to try and get some information about the gas explosion from me, the question was why. “Listen, I can take a guess as to what’s happening right now—you’re a cop.”

She squints and tilts her head, “—what gives you that idea?”

“I saw how you interacted with the police back at the café—saw how you took action and tried to save that woman. When I was escorted out, the police didn’t seem to pay you much mind either.” I take up the newspaper and point to the photo of my burning dorm. “You also mentioned how you knew Inspector Melinda wasn’t at the scene of the crime. So clearly—you’re an officer who’s gone undercover. If not, you’re most likely hired by one of the students’ paranoid parents at Brightland to investigate me for blowing up their rooms.”

“Marcus I don’t know what you’re talking about, but that’s not why I’m here.”

“Oh?” I stand up, ready to just get away from her, I don’t even care about my laundry right now. I’ve had enough of this, I’m too tired to deal with any of it. “Did Richard hire you then? I know his parents care deeply enough to hire an attractive-looking investigator to look into someone who can potentially hurt their beloved son.” I yell. Then tell her to leave, or I will.

There are several other patrons to the laundromat, but most of them just glance for no more than a second then go back to what they were doing. Irene smiles and nods her head at the people who notice us—then turns back at me.

“Keep it down, Marcus, you’re making a scene.” She whispers vociferously, “Calm down, and just hear me out.” By this time, I was already halfway out of the door.

“No, I don’t think I will.” I leave the door to close on its own as I storm out. I can get my things later—not like they’re going anywhere.

I place both hands into my pockets to keep warm and look back occasionally to see if she follows. In short—she did. I see her step out of the building and walk in my direction. But I walk faster. I then run into what felt like a brick wall, thick and hard—just my luck, I fall backward upon impact from Richard Gilrow’s massive build.

“Look who finally showed up.” Richard exhales a puff of smoke from his cigarette in my face. I cough.

Fantastic. Richard gestures his hands, and two of his friends immediately grab me by both arms and drag me into the alleyway.