Beneath The City lines

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic

I was the guy you didn’t make eye contact with in the street. The one that came down your block every day to hand out the newspaper, but you never cared about, yeah… that’s me. I’m not proud of it. I have lived in the shadow of my family my whole life. But than something weird happened today, my whole life took one big turn and I was thrown directly into the spotlight of it all.

No, it was not a dark and stormy night. There were no strong winds blowing hard on my face. No dark alleys with dead ends. No tall male figures dressed all in black blending in with the night. No thunder shaking the earth or lightening piercing the sky. There weren’t guns shooting, blood everywhere, or silence. No, in fact, I was in broad daylight in the loudest busiest city of Manhattan. It was always quite the vision. The buildings on either side of me stretch out far beyond my sight capacity despite my high prescription glasses. The sun takes advantage of their superior height by reflecting its bright, shiny yellow glory down on the thousands of windows covering the buildings creating an even brighter Tuesday morning. Irrespective of Manhattans height, it still crams the buildings together. If they were teeth, they wouldn’t need braces for more than a few months before coming together.

My hands held tighter on the handles of my bike as I avoided a few people walking my way. The last time I had accidentally rode over someone’s toe he made me question my anti-racist belief by chasing after me for about three blocks. I had a major asthma attack and ended up passing out in the middle of a street in Manhattan. This time I was prepared, bringing my inhaler with me. It was stored away deep inside the thin beige cotton bag hung over my shoulders. The bag was my life, my job. Being a newspaper boy, or as some people like to call it; Newsie, I was looked down upon in the eyes of the people of upper west Manhattan. 
I was the guy that came down Greenville Boulevard every Tuesday and Thursday with the new weekly edition of the New York Times.
I was the guy that never received a ‘Thank you’, a smile, or tip, or pretty much anything.
The Guy who you avoided eye contact with in the streets for fear of the ‘he looked at me!’ disease.
I didn’t mind being that kind of guy. Attention led to anxiety. Anxiety led to panic. Panic always led to more asthma attacks. So instead I do what I know I do best, I pretend to be invisible. 
“Watch it!” a tall angry man demanded as I swerved to the left, out of his way. My bike was old, every time I turned the wheel a loud squeaking sound reverberated the air around me. Fortunately, it was inaudible with all the taxis beeping and people talking. No one could hear it but me. And though it shouldn’t have distracted me as much as it did, I lost control of the bike. In what seemed to be slow motion I flipped over in a complete circle like a Ferris-wheel onto on the hard-cemented pavement beneath me. My back came crashing down with the force of a volcano and the most excruciating pain burst through my bones and stole the breath right out of me. I thought the pain couldn’t get worse, but than my bike followed in pursuit and came crashing down onto my body.

No one stopped. No one helped me up or stuck out their hand. No one looked at me or stopped there walk to help me up. I pretended I was invisible most of the time, but I never realized I didn’t have to pretend. The hundreds of people walking by without a glance at my body spread out like a snow angel on the floor, proved me wrong. One tear escaped my eye. I didn’t realize it until it dripped down the side of my cheek. It was cold and moist, falling like a feather from the sky and tickling the skin beneath it. Slowly with trembling fingers I lifted my hand and wiped the tear away. When it was gone, I knew something was wrong. My lungs were beginning to close. I began wheezing and gasping for breath as I quickly struggled to get a hold of my inhaler. I knocked the bike off me and struggled to get in an upright position as black dots started blinding my vision. I struggled with what little sight I had left for my newspaper bag discovering it was tangled in the chains of my bike. And to make matters worse the chain had ripped a hole the size of Rome into the bag. The New York Times magazines scattered the pavements around me. Peoples footprints were covering the pages as they casually stepped over and onto them. My mind was turning blank. I couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. The panic was unbearable. Where was my inhaler? I could feel myself slipping away. My hands were by my throat trying to squeeze out my lungs and breath properly. As soon as my fingers touched my neck, I felt white hot pain and cold liquid. There was blood covering my neck from the fall, and now it was all over my hands. Than everything turned red. The buildings, the people, the cars. I was going to die right here on Greenville Boulevard And then I saw it. In the distance, a white form among all the red, standing out next to what looked like was the shiniest black shoes ever; My Inhaler! Pushing with all my might, my throat closing tighter and tighter threatening to seal me away forever, I practically rolled over to it. My fingers, covered in the red blood, reached out in front of me, stretching and stretching until I felt it in my hand. Less than a second after I had it enclosed in my fingers, it was in my mouth. I was breathing in and out short deep breaths in the middle one of the most crowded streets of Manhattan. I was covered in blood and tears, sitting on the floor half dead. It was not how I expected my Tuesday morning to have started.

The black dots disappeared from my line of vision. The streets returned to their natural colors, no more red. I realized I was awkwardly leaning over someone’s black shiny shoes. Before I could rear back, I felt a tight hand on my shoulder pulling me to my feet. My body didn’t fight the hand, it was too exhausted and weak. I was too busy savoring every single breath I took to care if the man would kick me off the streets or pull out a gun.
“No child. This not how you react. Tears no make problem go away. Hardman not want that. Get back inside and show proper condolences.” The man ordered me. I looked up into the mans face with new interest and surprise. He had a deep strong Russian accent. I never heard a Russian accent in person, only on TV. For a second, I thought I might be hallucinating but when my eyes met his I realized I wasn’t. He had the exact same features as the Russians did on TV. The same small sharp face with dark eyes that could kill you with one look. The classic mustache and bushy eyebrows with the tight dark skin that clung to his bones. If I hadn’t been afraid before I was now. Clutching my inhaler tightly I frantically turned to make a quick getaway on my bike. But when my eyes met the scene behind me my hopes sunk in dismay. The front tire of the bike was flat as a pancake, and my newspaper bag was still stuck in the chain. It began to dawn on me that I may never be able to use my bike again.
My heart began thundering in my chest. The bike was my life, and now it was gone. I couldn’t think of any other way I would ever be able to get around Manhattan. The tears were back again. I felt like a girl, it didn’t feel good. The arm on my shoulder tightened.
“Tears inside! I said tears inside!” the Russian sounded in my ear as he pulled me roughly by the shoulder and into the building we were standing in front of. I was able to catch a quick glimpse at a cross that was the size of the fridge I had at home hanging over the doors before I got pushed through them. 
“Sir, there’s been a mistake…my name is Roy Thompson” I began speaking frantically. I tried shrugging off his oversized clammy hand on my shoulder, but his fingers only tightened there hold “Listen you have the wrong person! I don’t really-“ I began desperately. My words dropped off the tip of my tongue and fell into complete silence as my jaw nearly hit the ground. I was in the world biggest church. There were dark maroon walls that held up the highest sparkling glass ceiling ever known to mankind. The glass was the colors of the rainbow, it mixed together like fish in an ocean. When the bright sunlight shone through the glass it illuminated the church with colors never seen before. It created a magical feeling and set the tone for the rest of the bland room. The rusty old brown benches leading to the front and center of the room were filled with people. But none of this was as shocking as seeing a coffin in the front of the room, I didn’t exactly understand what was happening, but I had somehow stumbled into a funeral.
“What’s going on?” I asked the Russian. He didn’t answer my question. Though, he did loosen his grip on my shoulder and dropped his hand. Irritated, I tried walking past him. I needed to collect the New York Times newspapers that covered the streets outside. I didn’t have time to mourn the dead, when I didn’t have the slightest idea who died. My attempt to flee was blocked. The Russian stepped in my way, his bushy eyebrow raised in amusement and disgust.
“I say you stay. Condolences here. *yú ch?n de m?i guó rén” the last part was mumbled in Russian. I didn’t understand a word he had said.
“Stay? Condolences?” I was baffled. What was going on here? Why wouldn’t the Russian let me leave the church? I didn’t even know the person! The questions felt like puzzle pieces in my head that couldn’t connect. My head started to spin. Quickly, I stuffed my inhaler into my mouth again.   Breathe. One Breath.     Two When I looked up, I noticed the Russian was staring at me. Embarrassed, I pulled the inhaler out of my mouth. I had never really been looked at before. When people saw my cheap Walmart clothes, shoes, and hair that made me look like Shaggy from Scooby Doo, they would avoid eye contact. If ever they did look closely it was to wonder what I was doing blocking their path. But the Russians eyes, the ones that could kill with one glance, they penetrated my skin. It felt like he could see through me. See all my secrets and flaws. I felt vulnerable and weak. My skin started to sweat. Terrified, I stepped backward and started in the other direction, moving further and further through the church. I kept walking and walking. Passing all the mourners and wondering if there was another exit out. I was so busy scanning the walls for a door, I almost jumped out of my skin when thin weak arms surrounded me entangling me in a bear hug. My throat tightened, and my heart nearly stopped at this sign of affection. Though, it almost felt good to be hugged and cared for even for a few seconds, I still pulled back. My mind was swirling in confusion, wondering why the old lady with the grey hair and white dentures standing hunched over had hugged me.
“There, there,” she said, patting my shoulder like I was some kind of dog “Marc’s soul will forever rest in peace.” She wasn’t the creepy old lady type, the one that had skin wrinkled so bad that there was a chance it might start falling apart. She had small little wrinkles just around the bridges of her red eyes that were filled with tears. She was obviously close to this Marc- the boy or man that had died.
“I’m sorry for your loss ma’am. But I don’t actually know who-“
“So this must be one of Marc’s friends!” a cheerful voice interrupted me. Hands wrapped around my shoulder and I turned to see a guy around my age playfully hitting me in the shoulder. His arm was thick with muscle. I felt the little bit I had tighten. This man didn’t seem to be to upset considering he was at a funeral. His gorgeous face was flushed like he had been jogging. Not crying or sitting like most people did when they mourned.
“Chester!” The old lady who had hugged me began. “Let go of this fine, young man.” I looked around confused. Fine young man? Was there another man Chester was holding onto on the other side? Chester unhooked his arm from my shoulder and laughed enthusiastically. He playfully punched my shoulder again as he gave the old lady a scowl.
“Grandma! Get a grip. I was just playing with the guy”
“Playing? That was a physical attack, Chester! Keep your hands to yourself. How can you be fooling around today? Have you seen Olivia? Do you-“
“Okay!” Chester held his hands up in surrender “Geez Grandma,” I noticed one of his fingers had dried blood on them. I tried taking a closer look, but he already started storming away. I blinked a few times thinking it must have been my imagination.
“Poor Olivia. She was just a few months away from having a baby when Marc died…” the old lady burst into another set of tears. Sobs echoed the room and a few eyes started looking in our direction. My cheeks flushed at the thought of everyone’s stares. I gave the old lady a small bow and headed closer to the front, ducking out of everyone’s line of vision.
I had only been here for about a minute and already I felt like I met the whole family. There was an old lady, probably the grandmother of the boy who died. A grandson Chester. And a dead Marc leaving his pregnant widow, Olivia. So many things were happening at once. I didn’t want to be here anymore. I needed to get out of here. I walked closer to the front, hoping there was a door behind the large red curtains hidden behind the coffin. I averted my eyes as I drew near. I could feel my blood going cold beneath my skin with the knowledge that I was drawing close to a dead man. Unfortunately, it was almost impossible not to look at the coffin when that’s where everyone’s attention suddenly landed. There was a short man in a black robe who I later realized was the pope, leaning over and wrapping his fingers around the lid of the coffin. They were going to open it. They were going to expose the dead Marc to the people. And they were doing it when I was only feet away from it!
My eyes swung to the right of the coffin terrified. I didn’t want to see a dead man right now, not with the chance of me becoming one, with the Russian at the front door. My hand tightened around my inhaler, while my fingers fidgeted, pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose where it had fallen. Taking in what I was now looking at, I stared at it, closely keeping my eyes on it as I scurried forward. It was a large picture frame held up by two thin metal poles. The picture was of a middle-aged man with tousled jet-black hair and small green eyes. He had the same striking resemblance to Chester. In this picture the man was smiling so big, it stretched out his cheeks and revealed straight white teeth. His gaze wasn’t centered on the camera, it was gazing off into the distance at something to the right. My heart almost stopped beating. My brain started turning to thick grey clouds halting my body mid step. The man in the picture was Marc, the dead man in the coffin inches to the left. Wrong. There was something very wrong. This couldn’t be Marc. It was impossible!
I gasped. Everyone gasped. Then there was screaming. I thought it was me. I thought I was the one shouting. But the screaming was the voice of a woman. My eyes stared at the coffin. A very pregnant looking women with long blonde hair was leaning over the coffin screaming hysterically. It was empty. The coffin was empty Marc’s body, gone. Well of course it was gone, I had nearly run into the dead guy just moments before.




Watch it. It was two small words. Words were said all day. Words were the most underestimated weapon in the world. It had the power to break, create or destroy. It moved slowly through the air in sound waves, never able to be taken back, as its shoots through like an arrow and falls in the distance. Words weren’t meant to be spoken by dead people. Dead people can’t run into you in the street and send you flying off your bike. Dead people can’t be missing at their own funeral. But I guess I don’t know much about dead people. “Where’s the body? Where’s Marc?” the blonde pregnant Olivia was screaming as she sunk to her knees in tears. Her fingers were gripping the coffin so tightly in fear the rusty wood beneath almost snapped.
The room was like fireworks. People were running in all directions. Benches were moving and falling. People were screaming and rushing to the doors in an unorderly fashion that would shame every military school out there. There were people being trampled and stepped on. There was pushing and shoving everyone desperately seeking the exit. I didn’t move with them; my feet were rooted to the ground.
“Back up. Back up.” the fireworks of people were withdrawing. Slipping away from the doors as a group of police bombarded into the church. Their bright blue shirts stood out in a sea of black. There was more crying and screaming, as they tried making it past the police. They wouldn’t have it. They arched around the doors, keeping everyone in. Over a dozen of them had their hands covering the holster of the guns on their belts. I fell backward when one of the police rushed past me toward Olivia.
“What’s happening?” she cried “Where is my husband?” the tears couldn’t stop spilling down her cheeks I wondered how she still had tears in her eyes. Her feet were bent sideways, in a vulnerable, weak position. The police were next to her now, asking questions, attempting to comfort her to help her. The image in front of me was so mixed up. The body was gone, the police were here. Like dominoes one knocking down the other. Body gone, knocked onto police coming. But how did the police know to come? Who had called them? The frantic people running out of the church without a second glance? The dumbfounded, stone-still pope? No answers to any questions. I felt lost. I wanted to catch up in a race I was falling so far behind in.
I decided to act instead of standing here gawking at the scene. I stormed over to the police officer with more nerve than I knew I had. “He’s not dead.” I pronounced quickly. The words slipped off my tongue before I could stop them. I wanted to grab them back as soon as they came out of my mouth. Why was I getting involved in a crime that really had nothing to do with me? I was so busy freaking out, I didn’t realize the silent conversation going on between them with their eyes. When I caught a glimpse into it, I could almost hear the unspoken words being said. The way one eyebrow was slightly lifted with a tight crease forming on the forehead. The tight lips and eyes drawn into small circles. Crazy. They thought I was crazy.
“What?” One of the officers asked me. He stood up from his bent position next to Olivia to glance into my eyes.
“I…I” I began not sure how I was going to finish this sentence “Are you sure he’s dead?” I asked instead trying to veer the conversation into a different direction. The officer choked on a laugh. His chest bounced up and down in laughter.
“Marc?” The officer laughed “As in Marc Hardman, the man whose funeral you’re currently attending?” he laughed again. He thought I was joking, trying to shed light on the situation.
“Yeah, died of an aneurism” he dropped his eyebrows from there raised position.
“How?” I asked
“Do you want a science lesson? Blood clotting in the brain…veins bursting” the officer made a popping gesture with his fingers. I winced.
“No. I mean how do you know he died of an aneurism?” I asked face flushing.
“Because that’s what happens when your brain pops!” he looked over my shoulder distracted. I was already invisible to him. “Listen kid…I’ve got bigger fish to fry-” clearly dismissing me.
“But it didn’t pop!” I interrupted. The officer rolled his eyes annoyed. I was just some crazy guy to him, questioning a death at a funeral. “You don’t understand! I ran into him and-“
“Is that blood on your neck?” He wasn’t even listening to me. I had forgotten about the cut on my neck. The memory of it made it sting. My fingers reached for it, the cold blood seeping through my skin covering my trembling fingers.
I stumbled back from the officer and pulled my body in a different direction. He wasn’t listening to reason anyway. I wondered where the restrooms were. A place to be alone. My feet were moving but my mind was far above the clouds. I found the men’s bathroom. My legs almost buckled as I fell through the door and stumbled onto the sink. My glasses had fallen south, they tickled the bottom of my nose. I pulled them off, splashing my face with cold water as it escaped the faucet. Splashing repeatedly, hoping the water would wash away my pain. My reflection in the mirror was a disaster. My eyes looked too far apart without my glasses. Everything was blurry without them. I heard footsteps like a deep, low whistle exiting the bathroom. I fumbled for my glasses, trying to catch a glimpse of who it was that had left.  When they were in place, it was too late, the mystery man was gone. In its place was a familiar strong scent filling the bathroom. I searched the bathroom stalls trying to track down the source of the smell. Then I found it; a large clear Ziplock bag of leafy marijuana.



So, when people ask if something can get worse than it already is, they are basically admitting to the fact that whatever they’re going through isn’t so bad. If it was so bad then they wouldn’t have asked such a question, because whenever asked, it does indeed magically get worse. Especially, when the police find you at a funeral with a missing dead person. And you claim he’s still alive. And minutes later your caught with an illegal amount of drugs walking out of a bathroom in middle of the same church hosting a funeral. So yeah, I’m not going to say anything about my day. It obviously has its ways of getting worse, and I don’t feel comfortable testing fate on a day like today.
The police questioned me. They asked me where I had found the drugs and why I had it. They asked me personal questions, about my rich parents who claimed I embarrassed the family name by not getting a college degree. And about my successful Princeton graduate stuck up older sister. It didn’t feel relevant. Why was I the center of attention when it should have been all about Marc? The dead/alive guy that was going to haunt my dreams for the next few months. It didn’t get better when I couldn’t explain my relation to Marc. I tried explaining I was forced against my will into the church by some Russian but then the police informed me that there was no Russian. My day take a shattering halt when I discovered I was forced into the church by no one. I tried reconvening what happened to me earlier but all I could remember was a Russian man ordering me to mourn for Marcs death indoors rather than on the floor of the street. I shoved my inhaler in my mouth.
“Body’s gone and now drugs?” Chester plopped down onto one of the flipped over benches with a prosperous look on his face. Like the world was all fine and there were no dead people roaming the streets. He slipped one of his broad feet over the bench shifting into a more suitable position as his eyes landed on me. He watched me, his handsome features glowing in amusement as the police continued to question me. He had just appeared there, like he wasn’t in my field of vision one second but was there the next. “When I met you minutes ago, I didn’t think you were the drug type.” Chester shifted, when he said those words, as if he was uncomfortable with the words that were coming out of his mouth. I wondered if I was imagining the nervous sweat on his forehead like I had imagined the blood on his finger earlier.
“Officer Buffay!” Chester called over my shoulder. It was the officer that I had been talking to before who had show no interest in me. But now that I had illegal drugs in my possession, I was the apple to his eyes. The officer Buffay looked up at Chester with raised eyebrows. They knew each other. Chester knew the police officer!
“Long time no see,” he winked. I shuddered. My body was shaking, I felt a draft enter the room. First, I thought it was just me. My sweaty palms and beating heart were bringing chills up and down my spine, climbing like a wild monkey. But then I caught a glance at the door. It was the Russian. The Russian that the police believed didn’t exist. He had to have something to do with Marc.
I excused myself from Officer Buffay and Chester. I ran to the doors dodging crying old people (One of which was the grandma who had hugged me before) and made my way to the front door.
The Russian was alone. There were no police officers blocking the door. Just the Russian with the tight scary eyes. I jumped behind a wall so he wouldn’t see me. He was deep in conversation on the phone in Russian. *“yí qiè d?u àn jì huà jìn xíng méi y?u rén jìn jìn ch? ch? jiào huì bié d?n x?n m? kèyí qiè d?u zài kòng zhì zh? zh?ng ” he walked away from the door like he just realized everything he was saying was top secret. That he didn’t want some American translating his Russian. But he couldn’t be responsible for this. He probably had nothing to do with Marcs disappearance. This wasn’t some stereotype movie where the villain is the mysterious Russian. Chester was more the type. He hadn’t cried once for his dead (or in this case undead) cousin. It wouldn’t add up. I tried putting it together, to stick the pieces of the puzzle together to- The door was open. Had no one realized that there were no police officers blocking the door? There was no Russian keeping everyone in and then fading into nonexistence. I rushed forward. My feet storming on the carpet, like drums playing. I raced out of the church. Marc wasn’t my problem. I had no reason to stay. I was going to get out of here. Be free from the wretched walls of a god I didn’t even believe in. I felt confident as I made my way onto the busy streets of Greenville Boulevard. I was never so happy. Never so free and alive. I didn’t mind stepping over the fallen newspapers from earlier. Nothing mattered anymore. I was free. I could go anywhere. I could do anything. I felt confident as I took another step, my worn-out shoe covering some article in the New York times about some Chinese people to glance at the still blue sky. To feel the air on my face and pull at my shaggy hair.
There were birds chirping and trees rustling. Everything I never appreciated before was so perfect now so- Click. One puzzle piece clicked in my head. Then another. Then another. They were clicking so fast. Everything was making so much sense. I was catching up in the race. I swung around to face the Church, my eyes wide in terror at the realization of what I just discovered hit me.
I knew! Oh, I how I knew exactly what had happened to Marc. It all made sense to me now. He hadn’t done any of this alone. He had an accomplice working with him this entire time from the outside. And that person was inside this very church. The only question that was left; was I willing to go back inside?
In movies and books there is a moment. A moment when time slows down and comes to an abrupt stop. Its that time when the main character’s life comes crashing apart shattering into thousands of pieces. Everything you came to know about the character, all the traits and individuality about them is tested. This is the moment. The moment leads up to the happily ever after where the characters problems are all resolved. I have been waiting for this moment my entire life. Waiting for that challenge that will lead to my own happily ever after. I waited. Challenge after challenge. Struggle after struggle. I never had my moment because life keeps going throwing different things my way. It doesn’t like the books do, but goes on. This moment standing outside the church felt like my moment, I knew it wouldn’t end with my happily ever after, but what I did know was that it was going to take me one step closer. So, I did what any person would do in my situation, I turned from the church and ran. I ran and ran putting all the distance in the world between the church and me.



The grandmother nearly had a heart attack when she saw Marc Hardman handcuffed and pulled into a police vehicle. I’m pretty sure everyone had quite the scare when the man they all thought to be dead was being arrested in front of there eyes. It’s not every day that dead people are caught walking around and are being arrested for that matter. It felt like moments before I had found Marc, but it was hours. The police had kept me with questions for hours after they had caught Marc. Especially how I had told them it was Olivia who was his accomplice. Of course, at first no one had believed me, but they had an undead man in custody, so I guess anything was possible. I didn’t blame anyone for not believing me, Olivia was an amazing actress, crying through everything. I didn’t think it was her at first but honestly how could Marc have faked his own death without his wife finding out. “It doesn’t make sense” the police officers had informed me. But it did. The first clue I had gotten was when the police had shown up seconds after Marc had gone missing. No one had called them, they were just there. After the drugs were discovered I knew the police hadn’t just been there by coincidence, they had already been outside. The Hardman couple were illegal drug dealers on the run from the police. When they knew the police were catching up with their little scheme, they decided the only way to escape was to fake Marc’s death and then make a run for it. The police were a little suspicious about the sudden death of the man they were about to throw in prison, so they came to the funeral and remained outside undetected. But when Marc went missing and everyone started running out the doors the police had filed everyone back in. I didn’t know Olivia was in on it, I just knew Marc was since he wasn’t dead like he was supposed to be. I had thought it was the Russian who was helping Marc out, the police didn’t even know who he was when I asked about him. But I knew it wasn’t him when I had escaped the church. I had stepped on an article about Chinese people from the New York Times magazines that covered the pavement. The article had reminded me about a different article that I had read, an article that taught me Chinese and Russians look the same since they have the same eyes. So, the man wasn’t Russian but Chinese which was why the police didn’t know who he was when I asked them about the Russian. The Chinese man was a police officer assigned as a doorman. He hadn’t recognized Marc when he had escaped. “But why would the body be missing; wouldn’t it be easier if Marc had just stayed in the coffin?” the officer had continued asking. “I don’t think that him leaving the coffin was part of the plan. Olivia had freaked out when he was gone, their plan was falling apart” I had explained. Because I knew Marc wasn’t meant to leave the church and run into me. He was meant to stay in the coffin and play dead until it was over. The plan had backfired when Marc discovered he was claustrophobic and had made a run for it without telling his wife. “How do you know all this?” the officer had continued to ponder. “Marc told me.” I had replied with a smile. “And how did you find Marc?” “I knew which direction he was headed when he had bumped into me. I’m a newsie. My job consists of me coming down Greenville Boulevard twice a week with the weekly newspaper. I know the block inside out. I know each person and their type. None of them would ever let an unwell dressed man anywhere near there property, they never like it when I do it. So, he had to have continued running. The street goes on and on until it hits water with only one turn. I got to him after he made the turn and called the police.” I had replied. I remember feeling confident, my shoulders didn’t feel hunched or weak. I didn’t need my inhaler with all my attention. I had felt alive. “And how did you know it was Olivia?” the police officer continued. I smiled knowing my answer. “Her shoes. She had gone into the men’s bathroom thinking anyone who found the drugs she had, would never think it was her. She never dreamed someone would be in the bathrooms in a crisis like that,” I had responded. “Her shoes made a soft whistling sound, not like the hard-strong sound a man’s shoe makes.” I had known after I had escaped the church that if it was a woman who had gone into the bathrooms, then it couldn’t have been anyone but Olivia. I had suspected Chester at first, his uncaring feeling at the funeral, but I figured he wasn’t close with Marc. And he knew the police officer from when he had bailed on jury duty (or at least that was the story he had told the cops.)



The day was coming to an end. The sun was setting in the horizon plastering the sky with seas of color. The police officers had thanked me profoundly offering to call my boss and explain the newspaper incident. I thanked them then, knowing that this was my aftermath, my moment, and it could only lead to my happily ever after from here.

Submitted: September 19, 2019

© Copyright 2020 the book worm. All rights reserved.

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the book worm

Hello anybody that is reading this. I am just a teenaged girl who finds pleasure in writing, so I do it. I didn’t enter this contest to win (nor do I think I will) I entered it because I want someone like you to read something that I took the time to write. Please leave a comment. Its so easy, a few clicks of a keyboard can make my day. Thank you!!

Fri, September 20th, 2019 3:58am

Robert Helliger

A well written thriller crime book.

Wed, December 4th, 2019 4:51am

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