logolepzy

Uncle Tommy suggested I see a shrink, so I told him to fuck off. I promised him I’d write these stupid letters instead. Journaling, mindfulness, yoga – all that does nothing for me. This shit better work. So…here’s a list of things in my life you never got to see.

I stopped doing soccer right after you passed. I’m sorry.

I know even when you were here I had horrible grades. But I made it. I graduated high school. I got into college, worked my ass off, and somehow became the youngest person in NYC to make the Homicide Division. I hope you’re proud of me.

…But it’s brutal. Captain Thompson is just cruel. Tommy met her at a few holiday parties and I don’t know. There’s no concrete evidence yet, but I know there’s something up with her. And the rest of the NYPD. I’ll move on to something better eventually.

By the way, Tommy misses you too. A few weeks ago, we looked through the attic and found a bunch of old photo albums and VHS tapes. We spent all day looking through them. There was a picture of us sitting on your ‘Smoke Couch.’ The black leather one in our old living room. It still reeks of cigars.

My head hurts writing this. Me and Tommy still have nothing for you. No evidence, no lead. Not any fingerprints. Even the files have nothing. I’m so sorry. There has to be something. You’ve been gone ten years and all that I have left of you are old photos and some beat-up jackets.

You need justice. I need answers.

We miss you so much. I’m going to stop writing before I throw up.

Always surviving, Emily Rose 09/10/18

* * * *

I had a fluffernutter sandwich this morning and thought of you.

Don’t know why I love it so much. I probably have a dozen cavities by now. I’m sorry it’s been a while since my last letter…a lot has passed. Anyway–some life updates as promised.

I quit the NYPD. Are you surprised? I found so much shit - probably enough to fire every cop in my precinct - but HR turned on me. So I left. I spent two weeks moping, just bartending at the Drunk Tank until Tommy made me chat with an old friend of his. Mafalda. I think you knew her too. It’s so much better at the agency. There’s this guy named Luke who does all the computer stuff for us. He’s pretty sick. He lost his mom around the same time I lost you. And there’s a forensic analyst who occasionally works with us, Ruby. I know you were never much of a gossip, but they just started dating. They’re cute together. You’d like them.

Also, I got rid of that stupid leather couch you loved. It was all ripped up and probably had mold in it. And it smelled like absolute shit. Smoke and Horse Creek. Yuck. Uncle Tommy and I spent a whole day looking for a new couch. I landed on this velvet green one with a fancy fringe at the bottom. I can already hear you calling me bougie right now.

They say this in movies, but I didn’t expect life to change so fast. I have a dog now. Twilight. I found her at some deli during an investigation. (Everything’s fine now, don’t worry). She’s adorable. I woke up this morning with her head in my arms, staring at me with her big brown mopey eyes. I love her so much.

You know, it’s annoying funny how people enter your life and stay there. I don’t think I’m complaining this time. His name is Trystan Thorne and you’d love him. Uncle Tommy does, but I think it’s because he buys him fancy donuts every morning. I wish you could meet him. I barged into his penthouse one day and now we’re partners. Isn’t that weird? He’s infuriating, but it’s nice to have him around. Don’t tell him I said that. I told him some stories about you today and it was so nice to talk about you. I know I introduced you to him the last time we saw you.

Finally, some good news. We might have something for you. Big V. I told Tommy and Mafalda about her and they both think there might be a chance she did it. I hate that it’s taken so long to come up with just one possible lead. But I’d do anything to know what happened to you. I hope you know that.

I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you more. I miss you so much. Here’s to fifteen years without you.

Always surviving, Emily Rose 10/08/23

* * * *

It’s only been a few months since my last letter and so much has happened. Trystan was put on trial for a murder he didn’t commit. We had to fly half the team to Drakovia as a hail mary. Ended up playing lawyer for a few minutes. It was weird.

I messed up so many times. Trystan and I fought over something we both knew the answer to. Sebastyan…Fuck. Vasili is dead. Every time I remember that look in his eye, I want to throw up. My head hurts. It’s 3 AM and I can’t sleep.

Trystan is sleeping right beside me. He’ll never admit it, but he drools in his sleep. I love him so much. He chops garlic for me, washes my back, and always listens to me talk about you. I want to bite him sometimes. I keep imagining all the dinners and talks we could’ve had, just the three of us. You could’ve told him all of your stupid jokes - like the one about eating a clock.

Tomorrow is my twenty-ninth birthday. Tommy told me he had something planned. I bet you ten bucks it’ll be a party at the Drunk Tank. I remember growing up, you guys would spend the entire night decorating the apartment with balloons. I hope Tommy isn’t doing that this year.

You’re here everywhere I go. I was doing laundry earlier and saw one of Tommy’s button-downs that used to be yours. It still smelled like you. I make coffee just like you did - black. I have your small, bulbous nose. I took a train to Montauk and thought of you.

I hate that your life was taken from me. But I will find you at the end of mine. I love you, Dad. Come visit me sometime? Please.

Always living, Emily Rose 3/31/24

* * * * I’ve missed writing. Fun fact, this was originally going to be called ‘someday, anything.’ Glad I didn’t go with that! I wrote this all in a day after I found the most devastating YouTube comment and just had to write something. Also, if you didn’t notice the start of the 2nd letter is a little reference to this fic. Anyway - there’s definitely more writing coming from me soon...Hope you enjoyed this angst xx Tags: @choicesficwriterscreations @jerzwriter @logolepzy @stars-are-within-me@shadyinternetblizzard @urcowboyboyfriend @lexicook74-blog @leahtine @jahrobin @calisomnia @kyra75 @icarusfallsforever @inlocusmads @tessa-liam

The flustered doctor begins to undo his buttons furiously, crumpling the top in his hands and tossing it to the wall. Goosebumps appeared as he stood defeated in his bathroom, with nothing left besides his binder and slacks. His breathing begins to pick up as he starts pacing the chilly tile floor, switching between randomly picking at his chest and flapping his hands anxiously. A clock was ticking down, he and Derek had always gotten ready alongside each other, matching the pace up until 8:30 AM when they would typically leave for work. The sound of jangling keys drags Spencer out of his panic, and he comes to the realization he is accomplishing nothing with this. It was time to go to work.

“Spence? You almost ready?” Derek questioned cautiously from the outside of the bathroom door. He was well aware of how peculiar his partner was of their punctuality, so he had already begun to assume something was seriously wrong. Shortly after, he hears Spencer scurry around the bathroom, clothes thrashing against the still air.

“I'm okay! Just give me a couple minutes” Spencer’s voice cracks as he pushes through teary eyes to fend off his boyfriend from entering and witnessing the embarrassment of his coming undone. The idea of being seen in a vulnerable state, a state of panic, was too much to bear. He pulls at his binder, attempting to release the pressure from his chest, finally allowing himself to breathe. Derek starts to walk away before he hears tiny sniffles coming from the bathroom, causing him to immediately return and press his ear to the door.

“Are you okay in there? What's going on?” Derek softly asks, his concerns beginning to grow rapidly. His mind automatically went to Dilaudid no matter how many attempts he made to reject the idea. The scenario of his boyfriend behind a locked door, sobbing and fighting himself was all too familiar. He shifted the doorknob ever so slightly, trying to gauge if it had actually been locked. Comfort flushed him once he managed to twist the handle. Still, his urgency persisted, causing him to fling the door open, spotting his slender, shaky partner cowering next to the tub, arms wrapped around him tightly, resembling a comforting embrace.

“I can't do it, I can't.” Spencer's voice trembles, shaking his head as he continues to grip his shoulders, covering what he can of his unsatisfactory appearance.

“Woah, woah, what's wrong?” He scans the room for a syringe or a vial, trying to multitask and keep his focus on Spencer. Treading lightly, he places a hand on his shoulder, using his thumb to stroke the shuddering skin beneath it.

“All of it! My clothes, nothing fits properly.”

“What do you mean? We double-checked last time we went clothes shopping.”

“No, no, not like that. My chest is showing so much.” Spencer shifts again, clinging to his shoulder blades at this point, shielding Derek from seeing more than necessary.

Derek quickly caught onto what was happening, sweeping Spencer’s shirt and dirty towels left on the floor, allowing him to scoot next to the distressed man. In times like these, he tended to stay quiet, allowing Spencer to fully detail how he was feeling. Conversations worked out better this way. Derek made sure to understand before he reacted. 

Spencer lets out several shudders in random spurts, chest heavy with tears continuously rolling out of his puffy eyes. He relieves some burden by dropping his head on his partner’s shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut hoping that taking away one of his senses will bring him some serenity. They take in the silence for a few minutes, no words seeming necessary at the time.

“Your chest is fine, Spence.” Derek finally disrupts the quiet, attempting to settle the timid man based on what he knows. “Nobody at the BAU notices. All of them see you as a male.” He states with certainty.

“You can't know that.” Spencer choked up. The crying had died down, leaving him a sniffling snotty mess, only able to shakily mutter with his responses.

“I wouldn't tell you if I wasn't sure.” Derek lifts his hand to softly run his fingers through the agent’s ruffled locks, re-adjusting extremely displaced strands. He reaches up on the wall behind him, grabbing for the toilet paper roll, and tearing off a couple of squares to dab under Spencer’s nose. It hurt him to see the distress shown around the room, and the continuous sobbing from his partner. Something like this hadn't happened in a long time.

“That shirt looks normal most of the time. I don't understand why it looks that way today.” He huffed defeatedly.

“If it looks perfect for the majority of the time, your mind is probably playing tricks on you.”

“I know that. But I’m seeing it.”

“Well, I can't. I never see it. All I see is a good-looking FBI agent.” Spencer reluctantly chuckles at the compliment, Derek following after, a moment of silence falling once again.

“Maybe it's my binder.” 

“You think? I can buy you a new one.”

“It's okay, I got it.”

Spencer lifts his head from Derek’s shoulder, swiftly pushing himself from the icy tile to his feet to quickly resume getting ready.

“I’m so sorry. I know I made us late, just give me 5 minutes and I’ll be ready.” He mumbled as he wiped his misty face, hurrying out of the bathroom to search for a new shirt as quickly as he could. He rushes into their bedroom, immediately scanning the closet for something better, more loose. Derek trails behind him, placing himself in the doorway as Spencer frantically decides.

“Hey, hey. We don't have a case today, how about we just stay home?” Spencer furrows his eyebrows at the suggestion, stopping him in his tracks. “You can't just have a breakdown and clock in a few minutes after.”

Spencer wants to protest the idea of staying home today, but after putting some thought into it, the idea doesn't seem all too bad. He couldn't bear going to work feeling as if his colleagues would gawk at his figure, noting all the details they hadn't noticed before, analyzing the hidden meaning behind his chest seemingly growing overnight. He didn’t hyperfocus on these aspects frequently, being that he had mostly found peace with his appearance, but when a thought happened to appear, it took over almost completely. The option of staying home started to outweigh the routine of continuing to head to work, knowing a breakdown would creep up on him once more.

Reluctantly, Spencer draws back from the closet and steps back to settle himself at the edge of their bed, starting to ease up and ground himself.

“I’m so sorry. Honestly, I didn't mean to-”

“It's okay, Spence.” Derek cuts him off before he can begin an unneeded apology. “Let’s just take care of you today.” Spencer’s face blends into a peachy blush as he drops his head to rest in his hand, massaging his temples slowly to ease his sudden headache. Derek finally steps into the bedroom to take a seat next to his partner. He grabs hold of Spencer’s free hand, tracing his finger along each vein he could see protruding from the thin skin, then flipping it over to lace his fingers with the other’s, bringing it to his face as he places a gentle kiss where he previously traced.

Derek releases his hand, pushing himself off the edge of the bed to start making his way back out of the bedroom, allowing Spencer some time for himself. “Let me clean the living room and get some tea brewing. I'll call in for the both of us as well.” He always knew all the right things to say, exactly how to bring ease to the anxious doctor. And he does just that, heading to the kitchen to place a kettle on top of the stove, letting it come to a low boil while he sets chamomile tea bags into matching mugs. He dials Hotch’s number, ready with a detailed excuse in case the scenario of Hotch denying the request pops up.

“Are you…Malfada Ginovesi?” The older woman scoffed, standing up from the distressed couch. 

“No,” The woman croaked, “I’m Ms. Thompson. The caretaker.” A frostiness settled on Ms. Thompson’s face, her tone bitter and cruel. Emily nodded, handing her two suitcases to the dutiful caretaker. Thompson motioned Emily to follow her, her frail body heading upstairs. Their steps were met with a witchy creak, almost as if stepping on a dying creature. Emily’s chest ached, lost in an unforgotten memory, one that she longed to be buried six feet under. Surely, anything that dies will eventually be forgotten. 

“You will sleep in the yellow room,” Thompson spat, the both of them standing in the center of the corridor. Colorful doors covered the antique walls and a brass mirror hung across Emily. She studied herself before entering the room, goosebumps on her shivering arms. Her skin was milky, devoid of all blood, her earthy eyes too uneven to be on her face; almost as if they were just floating in front of her. 

“Miss?” Thompson asked, dropping Emily’s suitcases beside her. She shrugged the uncanniness away, grabbing her bags. 

“Right. Sorry,” Emily huffed, her hand curling about the doorknob. The caretaker grasped her shoulder, stopping her. Emily turned, meeting Ms. Thompson’s serious gaze. Something sinister lurked beneath her pupils, the darkness of her eye menacing and wicked. 

“One more thing,” She warned, her grip tight despite the frailness of her hands, “Don’t ever leave your room at night.” 

“What?”

“I leave the manor after I set dinner. I don’t stay during the night. I leave before the sun sets.” 

“Okay, but w–” 

“I live over in the town, Hartfeld. Miles and miles away.” 

“I understand.” 

“We couldn’t even hear you, that far away, and in the dark.” 

“Who’s ‘we?’” 

“Nobody can hear you that far away, you understand? No one ever wants to come to Braidwood Manor in the middle of the night.” 

“Will you just fucking tell me-” 

“In the night,” Thompson whispered as her eyes twitched, perhaps recalling a burning memory, “In the dark.” 

Emily rolled her eyes, giving up on receiving any form of clarification. She nodded plainly, shutting the door behind her. Dusty yellow walls cornered her, and another fragile mirror stood beside the door. A yellow-blanketed bed sat in front of her, with more yellow trinkets scattered about. Emily shook her head, enticed by Thompson’s foreboding words and irked by how increasingly monochrome her room was. 

She sat on the yellow bedsheets, quietly gasping. Even the ceiling was a persimmon yellow. Though the print had long died out, faint pale lines ran up and down the walls. The lines were thick, almost resembling rusty iron bars. Anybody of sound mind could go mad staring at the ungodly wallpaper for a minute longer. She darted down to the wooden floor, creaky and scratched. A knock at the door interrupted her jumbled thoughts, her eyes trained on the stranger before her. 

“Are you a part of the study?” A woman, possibly not too much younger than her, asked. Her face was warm and welcoming, opposite Ms. Thompson’s. Alarmed, Emily sat up from the bed. 

“I am,” she stood up, crossing her arms, “Who are you?” 

“Ruby Webster – who are you?” 

“Emily Rose,” she replied. Bags peppered under Ruby’s eyes, properly covered by her tortoiseshell glasses. A coffee stain was evident on the hem of her sweater, the circle now damp and wrinkly. Uncrossing her arms, Emily stood face-to-face with the stranger. Ms. Thompson’s warning repeated in her mind, though she dared not tell Ruby what was said – at least not yet. 

“What room do you have?” She asked, her hands on the doorframe, peering into the hallway. The corridor had only two other doors, the closest being a pleasant emerald door left ajar. A scratched-up orange door sat across from the green room, its vibrance now dulled. The final door, leading to the red room, emitted a cruel energy throughout the corridor. Emily shuddered, her nails digging into her palm. She turned back to Ruby, eyes casting thinly veiled fear. 

“That one,” Ruby pointed to the green door, “Everything inside is just green!” Emily chuckled, pointing back to the monochromatic room she was designated to. 

“Everything in my room is yellow. I don’t really care for it.” Ruby smiled, cheeks glowing a light pink. 

“I don’t either,” Ruby answered, “...would you want to check out the grounds with me? When I got here, I noticed a huge garden by the side of the manor, but Ms. Thompson told me to come in before I could go see it.” 

“I’d like that.” 

* * * * 

The garden was heaven on Earth, the grass topped with inklets of dewy rain. Roses and daffodils bloomed on the bright Spring day, circling about a tiny man-made pond; moss plaguing its waters. Sprigs of flowered cattails stood tall at one of its edges, its stem a husky green. The most splendid part of the garden, however, was the weeping willow. Large branches hung heavy green leaves, adorning vibrant yellow flowers. Emily hummed in delight, taken aback at how such a vile mansion could be home to such an innocent plot of beauty. 

“So, what do you do?” Ruby asked, the pair lying down on their backs. Angelic clouds glistened in their eyes, the soggy grass soaking their jeans. Before laying her head down, Emily grumbled at the mass of gravestones a few feet behind her. 

“I’m a…private detective,” Emily replied, “What about you?” 

“I’m a medical examiner. I graduated high school when I was fourteen,” Ruby said, a weak smile forming. Emily turned towards her, debating on intertwining their fingers in a celebratory fashion. She settled on keeping her hands by her side. 

“Are you kidding me?” Emily grinned, “That’s fucking impressive!” 

“Thank you,” her eyes danced at the compliment, “I usually work night shifts. It’s pretty quiet and peaceful…even though I’m working with dead bodies and murder weapons.” 

“Exactly how many hours do you work in a week?” 

Ruby flinched briefly, scratching her chin in contemplation: “I think I did eighty or so last week. Eighty-five?” 

“Eighty-five hours? How do you find the time to sleep?” 

“You’re the detective! Don’t you guys run on coffee and…I don’t know, donuts?” 

“Those are cops, not detectives! But…yeah, I do drink a lot of coffee.” 

“Anyways,” Ruby giggled, “I have a futon in my office when it gets too late.” 

“Ruby, I think you need an assistant.” 

“Absolutely not! Some busybody getting in my way, making a mess, and needing emotional support? No, thank you!” 

“I think you’re describing a toddler.” 

“Toddlers, assistants – same thing, really. I just like working alone.” 

“That’s not the part I’m worried about. It’s – hey!” Emily stood up, the hair on her neck prickling. With a squinted view, a small flurry of red ran across the field. Her heart sunk, her fluttering eyelids twinged with worry. Without another word, Ruby stood beside her. 

“Did you see that?” Ruby shook her head, the tiny dot of red having vanished. 

“We’re in a garden. It must’ve been a rabbit, right?” Emily stood still, her fingertips at the top of her holster encasing a taser.

“...Yeah. You’re right. We should probably head back now.” Emily grazed away from the taser, her breath still. Journeys end in lovers meeting. 

Grass crunched beneath every step as they headed to the veranda, still curious as to what they had seen. Emily attempted to shrug it off. After all, they were in a garden – it’d make perfect sense for a little creature to streak across the lawn. Nonetheless, the whole ordeal was quite peculiar. She had not counted a single living creature at the arrival of Braidwood Manor besides Ms. Thompson. 

“The fuck?” Emily spat, a weak puddle of blood settling by her and Ruby’s shoes. The front door stood ajar, a pool of chilled air seeping through. With a taser in the detective’s hands, Emily ordered Ruby to stay outside. 

Signs of a struggle surrounded her. A broken lamp was scattered across the wooden floor and a concerning amount of fresh blood trailed from the entrance to the living room. A bloodied grey button-down curled up on the couch, the sleeves torn. Brows furrowed and goosebumps raising from her forearms, Emily called out, as she quietly walked towards the living room: 

“Hello? If there’s anybody here, come out with your hands up!” 

No answer. 

Emily furthered herself into the manor, clearing the nearest hallway. Floorboards creaked with each step, brushing away the particles of dust and cobwebs off the surface. Cracked walls with rugged paintings and mirrors passed her until a single door stood across from her. Though it was sensibly shut, a bubbling in her gut dared Emily to unlock it. 

“...Ms. Thompson?” 

The door opened in a blink of an eye, revealing a shirtless stranger. A crimson cut on his forearm continued to bleed out, yet the man seemingly couldn’t care less; for he was more focused on the trespasser pointing a taser at him. His thick bunches of eyebrows curled downwards, and he reached for the closest thing to him: a serving tray. 

“Who are you?” The man yelled, his voice low with a soft accent. Darting to the taser as Emily was prepared to shoot, he scoffed. “Ah. I see.” 

In a seamless motion, the man hurled the tray, hitting Emily’s wrist. Wincing, the taser flew out of her hands. Without the chance to sputter out another sentence, Emily spun around in the man’s grip, his arms crawling around her neck, her back arching up against his toughened torso. Gasping out tiny gasps of air, Emily struggled to fight her way out. With a final growl, she twisted out of his chokehold, shoving him hard into a wall. 

“I’m a fucking detective! I’m a part of the study! What the fuck!” 

“You’re a cop?” 

“I didn’t say that! Who attacks a stranger with a serving tray?” 

The man shrugged nonchalantly, circling Emily with interest. Sparkling eyes of grey studied the ferocious stranger, a hint of allure in his glance. He chuckled to himself, keen on not answering her question. 

“You know,” he said, trailing up and down Emily’s body, “I’ve had several run-ins with law enforcement, and they didn’t look anything like you.” 

“What? Annoyed? Furious?” She scoffed, arms crossed. Trystan let out a cheeky smile, a dare in his eyes. 

“Hm, smart, competent, extremely well-dressed,” he pointed to Emily’s leather jacket, “and dare I say, sexy?” 

“‘Sexy’?” Emily repeated, cheeks glowing red as she threw daggers at him. “Go fuck yourself. Do you seriously flirt with people you fight with?” 

“Only if they threaten to tase me first.” 

Emily rolled her eyes. What a masochistic asshole.

“Well, I suppose you can’t blame me for jumping to conclusions when a strange woman points a taser at me.” 

“Fend off a lot of assassination attempts, whoever you are?” 

“Trystan Thorne. I apologize for the misunderstanding, Officer.” 

“Not officer. Private Investigator Emily Rose. I’m here for a group experiment, I didn’t exactly expect to get attacked on the first day,” Emily rolled her eyes, “How did you get that cut on your arm?” 

“...I saw a fox on the way here.” 

“And?” 

“It bit me after I tried giving them some of my trail mix.” Emily laughed, the blood on Trystan’s arm still slowly trickling down his hand. 

“Just now? Another person from the study and I saw an animal out on the grounds before I came in here.” 

Without answering, a thunderous shriek from upstairs crescendoed. Ms. Thompson, furious as she was, threw her hands up at Emily and Trystan. Her wrinkled face twisted into a new form of anger unfamiliar to either of them. 

“You tourists! Blithering idiots, always making a goddamn mess,” Ms. Thompson complained, mumbling insults under her breath, “You!” She pointed to Trystan, “Did you break that lamp in the living room? Go clean it up, there’s blood and glass everywhere!” 

The cranky senile stormed out, stomping back upstairs. With a turn, vintage paintings greeted Trystan, silently wincing at his blistering wound. 

“Wait!” Trystan stopped in his tracks, “You’re still bleeding – let me clean you up.” 

Sitting down on the living room sofa, Trystan sat down as Emily let Ruby back into the manor. Wearing a non-bloodied button-down from his bag, the front door creaked as the bubbly stranger greeted him and Emily. 

“Is everything okay?” Ruby asked, meeting Emily’s disheveled face. 

“Fine,” Ruby blinked at Trystan curtly, “The lamp just got–” 

“...I know you.” 

“Oh,” Trystan said, “Did we, you know…” 

“What? No, not like that! I just meant from TMZ! You’re that exiled prince, right?” 

Emily turned back to Trystan, skeptical. A fucking prince? In some random experiment? That was surely one for the books. 

“Wait. Emily, what are you doing hanging out with a literal prince?” 

“Believe me, I didn’t know Trystan was a prince until just now. I was just about to clean up this bite he got. You know that little orange thing we saw in the garden? It was a fox, it bit him right before he got here.” 

Emily opened up a medkit from the kitchen pantry, revealing a mass of health equipment within. Ruby sat on the chair across the unlikely duo, studying them as Emily dawned on gloves. 

“Can I ask why you were exiled?” Emily asked, wiping a clean cloth against his wound. Trystan chuckled dryly. 

“Of course. But the answer is that it’s none of your business.” 

“And if I guess it?”

“Well, if you manage to get it right, I’ll tell you everything you most desire on the matter.” 

Emily set the cloth beside her lap, grabbing a random tub of ointment from the kit, and slathering it on his wound. Trystan quietly gasped at the pressure, he never guessed an animal bite from a lowly creature caused such pain. 

“Hm,” Emily contemplated, “A murder most foul, perhaps?” 

“How riveting! Do tell,” Trystan said, casting a mocking grin. 

“You must’ve killed someone in a passionate rage after discovering they were having an affair behind your back.” 

“How steamy,” Ruby chipped in, throwing a teasing glance at the prince. 

“Cheating lover?” He scoffed, “Is that the best you can do? I suppose it’s the occupational hazard of being a private investigator.” 

The detective hunted for every minuscule feature on his face. It was clear the guess had slightly hurt him, yet for a prince with years of knowledge on dodging pesky questions, it was a walk in the park for him to quickly mask it with a veil of indifference.

Emily rolled her eyes, “At least you didn’t call me an officer this time.” 

“I’m going to hazard that you used to work with the police?” 

“Changing the subject awfully quick, aren’t you, Thorne?” 

“Just answer the question, Rose.” 

The last decade coursed through her as though she was speeding through a film. Years were steeped in aching heartbreak, and though Emily was quite familiar with her burning past; the last thing she hoped for was to create a thick cloud of pity from two strangers she’d just met. She repeated this routine since she was thirteen: never utter anything but the basics about her life to anybody. Something within her heart longed to be brought to light. To crawl out of the dusty attic and into the arms of something frightening and unknown. 

“...Yeah. Homicide.” Emily gulped, sticking a bandaid on his forearm. 

“You don’t strike me as the type. It’s hard to picture you in one of those blue uniforms.” 

Emily exhaled sharply, a memory flashing within her. A limp hand cradling hers, the scent of hardened popcorn, the walls suffocating her. Her eyes went distant, fingers digging into her palms until the stale air within the dwelling brought her back to her senses. 

“I grew up with cops. My father was one, like his father and my uncle before him.” 

“What happened?” 

“He was killed,” Emily cleared her throat, “They never caught who did it.”

“I’m so sorry,” Trystan said, eyes sincere with a hint of understanding. Ruby stayed quiet, yet an empathetic glance from her was more than enough for Emily.

“After that, it was like my calling to follow in his footsteps. I’d honor him and his legacy.” 

“What went wrong?” 

“Honestly? All of it. Widespread brutality. Abuse of suspects. Forging evidence. Corruption and bribery, all the way to the fucking top.” Anger fuelled her to continue, veins running warm, cheeks turning a crimson red. Her fingers trembled at the mention of her father, though Emily carried on. 

“I tried to expose it all. I built a case, I gathered evidence, but those fuckers at Internal Affairs turned on me. They threw out everything I spent years gathering on a ‘technicality.’ And that’s when I started finding dead rats in my locker.” 

“They fired you, I’m guessing?” 

“No,” Emily sneered, “I quit. But not before losing everything I’d spent a decade working on, not to mention most of my friends. The only person who still has my back is my Uncle Tommy…and he’s retired.”

“There’s an old Drakovian saying: ‘The hero isn’t the one who gets the treasure. He’s the one lying dead in an unmarked grave.’” 

“That’s pretty bleak,” Ruby added. 

“Eastern European cynicism can be like that,” Trystan replied, “And thank you, Emily, for putting a bandaid on me.” 

It was never like her to pour her heart out to two total strangers, yet something inside her ached to do so. It was an urge spilling out, almost as if these two strangers – the workaholic but lively medical examiner, and the mysterious yet oddly flirtatious prince – were to be acquaintances, potentially even friends. 

“Did Malfada tell you guys anything else about this study?” Trystan and Ruby shook their heads. 

“No,” Ruby said, “Everything she told me in the emails was vague.” 

“Mine too,” Trystan said, crossing his arms. “Maybe she’s just…senile. Outdated!”

“Excuse me?” A dark-haired woman by the front door spat, “Senile?” 

The trio stood up, and Trystan’s cheeks flushed. Carrying two raggedy bags into the living room, the ‘senile’ woman propped a hand on her hip. Without a doubt, the woman before them was Malfada Ginovesi. 

“If you ever call me senile again, so help me God, I will send you back to Drakovia with my bare hands, Trystan Thorne!” 

Emily and Ruby stayed silent, lowly giggling at the exiled royal’s idiocy. Plump bags belonging to Malfada sat on the floor in front of them, Emily’s curiosity growing stronger. A scrappy man followed quickly behind Malfada, beads of sweat trickling down his forehead. Trystan smiled apologetically at her, which the professor hesitantly accepted; the perks of being a rich charismatic moron. 

Spring raindrops met the Earth, the windows of Braidwood Manor soaked in condensation. The dimly lit room glazed with warmth from the brick fireplace. Bright embers spat onto the scratched floor, fizzling out with a ‘tsk.’ Rumbles of lightning cried out miles away, hitting Emily with a distant memory, violent stones in her vision. Malfada Ginovesi and her unnamed assistant stood by the fireplace, eyes darkening with knowledge the rest of the group lacked. Pouring herself a glass of whiskey, the professor swirled her drink of amber idly. 

“I think it’s time I tell you all about Braidwood Manor.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━

A/N: Finally – here is part one! I’m so, so happy to finally be able to post this after a week of writing and editing haha. Part 2 will….come up eventually! But in the meantime, here’s a little piece of gothic horror :)

Tags: @choicesficwriterscreations @jerzwriter @logolepzy @mooserii @starsarewithinme @jonathanmoores @shadyinternetblizzard @urcowboyboyfriend @lexicook74-blog @leahtine @jahrobin @icarusfallsforever @kyra75 @calisomnia