Whispers in the Rain
A Detective's Dilemma, Telltale crimson trail, part 7 prediction
The door knob was turned in my hand, but the door wouldn't move. My heart crashed nervously against my chest. Stevie? What was she doing here? I called out her name, but silence only responded.
With a deep breath, I kicked the door open and it slammed shut with a sharp pain coursing through my leg. The living room was empty; the rain mingled with the scent, filling the air together with a smell of an unknown perfume.
On a coffee table lay one white lily next to a folded sheet of paper with “John” written on it in stevie’s handwriting - everything about her calligraphy seemed to be burnt into the center of my eyes as I unfolded it.
“John,” it began, “You can’t run away from your past. Come alone.” At midnight at the docks.”
A shiver went down my back for Stevie knew; she had unraveled what connected the missing cocaine puzzle, staged crime scene and desperation that made me do all that.
Panic overwhelmed me. I felt trapped and exposed. But somewhere inside me ignited a small spark of resistance that would burn until my demise without giving up easily on our relationship.
In the rain, I took my coat and hurried out of the door. It was as if a thousand needles were pricking my face because of the lashing rain.
The docks were encased in mist and there was that eerie light from sodium lamps; it seemed they were waiting for something to happen.
A single form emerged from the shadows as I stepped on to the pier that creaked under my weight. In the dim lighting, Stevie’s face assumed a blank expression while she held a small shining object in her hand.
“You came.” whispered Stevie.
“What is it Stevie?” I said.
She looked at me not offering any response while still holding that one thing in her palm. Suddenly she flicked her wrist and threw it into the churning water below.
A splash filled the silence. The burden lifted off my stomach, went away, replaced by emptiness. The evidence was gone!
Turning towards me, she had those eyes with mixed feelings-anger, disappointment and something else unnoticeable.
“John, let's talk,” she quietly said this but wind howling made it impossible for me to hear clearly what she said.
About the Creator
Kageno Hoshino
Mistakes are not shackles that halt one from stepping forward. Rather, they are that which sustain and grow one's heart.
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Loose Threads
John stared as Stevie’s car drove down the street, tightening his stomach into a knot. He knew he had been careless. The coffee cup being left, ice filled in blood –these were errors committed by novices and should not have been made by him. Steve’s suspicion was real; there was something that could be seen in the air: why the delay?
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Bottom of the ninth inning. The game is tied with two outs, two strikes and a man on second. I tap the bat on home plate. The rigid vibrations it creates reminds my aching digits that this isn't over. The practice swing only adds to the heft of mental burnout... Man on second, willing to chance it. Pitcher eyes him but doesn't give in to the dangerous bluff. I kick up dust, readying the peculiar stance I've had since the days of little league. The bat lays stiff upon my cramping shoulder. Pain has no reason to be acknowledged; it's a fleeting afterthought. The sun sits passed high noon, but the stadium lights are on anyway. They trick my brain into believing they are the cause of this sweltering heat. Sporadic clouds are motionless, they too, don't want to miss this exhilarating predicament. Anticipating the next pitch, intensifying roars from the crowd rumble the stadium... Behind me, the crafty catcher adjusts his stance and spits to the dry dirt. Behind him, the staunch umpire doesn't flinch or even blink; he knows how important his call will be. The pitcher winds up, his grip tells me its gonna curve. The release is fierce! Beads of sweat from his hair and face disperse in every direction as the force of his might is unfailing. My left leg lifts—an instinctual move that will increase the power of my swing. It's all down to my two, bloodshot eyes. They lock onto the speeding, white dot as it instantly becomes the target I intend to destroy. The swing is late, but I manage a solid tip. The ball is taking a fast bounce toward the pitcher who is recovering from the almighty throw! Man on second leaves in a desperate rush! I fling the bat to the side with a sense of urgency and make a mad sprint to the only destination I have—first base. Three defenders race inward to be the first to retrieve the skidding ball. Man is almost on third! I watch the open glove of my adversary, wondering if I’ve done enough to win this race. I switch my attention to his eyes, looking for a clue, some kind of reaction that tells me the ball is in the air and heading his way. All I see is frustration. The deafening roar of the crowd spikes! Something happens that I can’t see! My opponent abandons his post right as my left stride touches the bag. I waste no time turning my head to see the pitcher laying on his stomach, pounding the mound with an open glove. He misses the opportunity to out me and the ball has quickly bounced past him. Excitement grows! This isn’t over yet... It's become an imperative fight to tag out the runner heading homeward. The catcher falls to his knees in obvious despair as he watches my teammate make the run of his life. He knows it’s going to be close when he sees the shortstop fumble the ball a second too long. I jump up and down with no plans on leaving first base. All my chips are on the speed and agility of the active runner. His cleats dig into the dirt, trailing a dust-filled cyclone from the rapid and strenuous strides. With a thrusting dive and an outstretched arm, he lands on his chest to begin the crucial slide to home plate. The shortstop fires the ball to the catcher! It immediately begins closing the gap! Nail-biting doesn't begin to describe the anxious vibe permeating the stadium. The bench begins to celebrate even before he reaches the plate. Forty thousand cheering fans reach maximum crescendo, filling the air with a glorious sound. Everyone knows how this story will end… My teammate is met by the entire bench as his fingers inch across home plate, instantly followed by the unmistakable motion of the catcher's glove attempting to tag him out—its milliseconds too late. The ump swings his arms outward, officially calling him safe.
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Comments (4)
Outstanding! Awesome story,
Oooo, what does she wanna talk about? So intriguing!
This is a really well thought out episode that is full of atmosphere and promise. A great way to dispose of the evidence and an interesting plot twist for Stevie to cover for John. Well done and thanks for joining the fun
Telltale Crimson Trail as delightfully written by Raymond G Taylor(It has the links to the original episodes): https://vocal.media/writers/where-is-the-snow