Limerence: Chapter 7

I’d like to think, most of the time, I am not a stupid girl.

A risky one – sure. My life has been a series of carefully calculated risks and I’ve beat the odds on most of them.

But this is not a risk I’m willing to take.

The longer I stare at the invitation, at Adrian’s frustratingly perfect cursive penned on the back, the more ominous it looks.

Because I can only think of one reason Adrian Ellis would go out of his way to send me not one but two invitations to his party: to humiliate me.

And since I have no desire to end the night covered in pig’s blood or as some other public spectacle for the sole crime of telling the truth, I’m not going.

I refuse to take the bait, which is why I decide to spend my Friday night the right way: snuggled up in my PJs with a hot cup of tea and my sketchbook. A cheesy old sitcom playing on my laptop serves as background noise while I draw.

Technically, I should be using this time to study since I’m barely keeping my head above academic waters, but I need to draw. My fingers itch with creative withdrawal whenever I go too long without opening my sketchbook.

Art is my comfort zone.

No matter how many tests I fail or how many chemistry concepts float over my head, art is the one thing I know I can do well. My kneaded erasers are a lot more forgiving than thermodynamic equations.

When I was little, my mother used to laugh – still does, really – when I told her I wanted to live in a cozy Manhattan apartment and create art full-time. Support myself with commissions and put my work up in galleries so that when people pass by, their eyes widen with recognition.

I suppose I can’t blame her for laughing.

It’s the kind of dream reserved for my classmates, whose creative energy will never be staunched by worrying about bills or health insurance.

People like me are supposed to dream practically. Scholarships. Trade school. Soul-sucking 9-to-5s.

We’re supposed to leave the big aspirations to the trust fund babies.

But I’ve got plenty of practice in not doing what I’m supposed to.

I sigh, scrolling through my phone for reference images. I’m working on faces tonight. I find a man’s portrait, his face tilted upward at an interesting angle.

First, I sketch the basic shapes and edges of his face till he looks human enough before moving onto the eyes.

I always do the eyes first.

I get to work shading his blue eyes, but once I’m done, I’m not satisfied.

So, I add more shadows. A little more contrast.

But they’re still not right, so I make them darker. More shadows, more contrast.

I don’t even realize how far I’ve strayed from the reference image until I lean back and I’m looking at familiar dark eyes.

Adrian’s empty gaze stares back, though it looks out of place on a face that isn’t his.

I fling the pencil away, slightly unsettled that Adrian has snuck his way into my most sacred place without me realizing it.

Guess that’s enough art for tonight.

A stampede of heels stomps past my door, no doubt senior girls heading to Adrian’s party. If I look out my window, I know I’ll see the Lacrosse team pre-gaming on the quad. The excitement of the campus is infectious, and some part of me – a small, teensy, tiny part – craves to join the action.

I fidget with the loose thread of my comforter.

Maybe I’m reading things wrong.

Maybe Adrian’s note on the invitation wasn’t about confronting me. He’s had all week to do that. Maybe he just wants to know why I spoke to Detective Mills. Maybe he wants to clear the air, let me know there’s no reason to be concerned.

Or maybe I just need to get out of my head and talk to someone else about this.

My fingers are dialing the familiar number before I’ve made the conscious decision to call.

The phone rings once, twice, three times before it directs me to a full voicemail box.

I click my tongue.

Well, that’s not helpful.

I try a new number, and this time, a chirpy human voice answers. “Cedarsville Police Department, front desk speaking. If this is an emergency, please hang up and call 911. Otherwise, how can I help?”

I swallow. “Uh, hi. I was wondering if I could speak with Detective Mills. This is Poppy Davis. She should know who I am.”

There’s a beat of silence and then the receptionist quietly says, “Unfortunately, Detective Mills is no longer an officer at our department, but I can direct you to another one of our detectives.”

She can’t see it, but my jaw drops open. “What do you mean? She doesn’t work there anymore?”

“No, ma’am.”

“But she worked there last week.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I don’t – what happened?”

“That’s not information I’m able to give out,” she replies.

“I don’t understand,” I repeat. “She was investigating a case just a few days ago. How can she no longer work there?”

“As I told you, ma’am, that’s not information I’m able to give out,” she says, more firmly this time. “I’m happy to direct you to another one of our detectives.”

I take a deep breath, and then I pull out a trick that is purely genetic. “I’m so sorry,” I say. “I really don’t want to bother you, it’s just…” I add a voice crack for good measure. “Detective Mills was investigating the death of my classmate, and she made me feel so comfortable speaking to her. I don’t know what I’m going to do now…” I sniffle. “But it’s fine. It’s not your problem. You have protocols, I get that.”

The guilt-trip comes out a little whinier than I intended, but it gets the job done.

The receptionist sighs, then murmurs, “Detective Mills was terminated for inappropriate investigation practices. That’s all I’m allowed to tell you. Now, if there’s anything else, I’ll need to direct you to one of our other detectives.”

“No, that’s okay,” I assure her. “Actually, just one more thing.”

“Ma’am, I’m really not supp –”

“Can you just tell me if Detective Mills’ investigation on Mickey Mabel is still open?” I blurt out. “Please.”

There’s another pause, the sound of rustling paper before she tells me, “It looks like that investigation has been closed following Detective Mills’ termination. It was ruled a suicide. All of the deceased’s personal effects have been returned to his family.” More rustling paper. “Now, is that all?”

“Yes, thank you.”

I hang up first, head reeling and so jittery that I end up pacing back and forth.

Inappropriate investigation practices?

This can’t be right.

Detective Mills was nothing but professional and kind both times she questioned me. And besides Mickey’s family, there’s only one other Lionswood student I’m positive she’s spoken to.

My jaw hardens.

How convenient Detective Mills gets fired after she pulls Adrian out of class for questioning.

Too fucking convenient.

He is an Ellis.

His family regularly dines with US senators and foreign diplomats. Celebrities brush elbows with them, not the other way around. Hell, I’ve heard get Christmas cookies from the Vice President every year.

When they show up in magazines and news articles, it’s with glowing commendation. There are never any scandals or juicy clickbait headlines where the Ellis family’s concerned.

They’re untouchable.

And Detective Mills, in reaching for the truth, threatened that. Whether it was sparking rumors when she pulled Adrian from class or something more, I don’t know.

But whatever it was, it came at the cost of her job.

My heart is thumping so loudly I can hear it in my ears and I stop pacing long enough to lean over my desk chair.

Maybe I’m just spiraling.

There’s a distinct possibility that her termination had nothing to do with Adrian Ellis, and he’s only a victim of timing. Maybe I’ve just listened to one too many of Rick’s conspiracy theories over the years, and they’re finally rubbing off.

You see people. Especially the ones who are never as nice as they seem, the detective’s words ring in my head. Those are valuable instincts, Ms. Davis. Don’t doubt them.

I could sit here for the rest of the night, white-knuckling the desk chair and talking myself into logical explanations, but I’m starting to think Detective Mills was right – about more than one thing.

My gut is telling me that Adrian Ellis is to blame for both the termination and abrupt closing of Mickey’s case.

He’s hiding something.

I stare at the stupid, cream-colored invitation collecting dust on my desk and decide the potential of pig’s blood is not enough to scare me off from finding out exactly what that may be.