First on Scene.

Truth is, I’ve never had trouble getting close to the victims.

Working for the local Morning Gazette in EastBriar, Boston, served me more bloody victims on a platter than the local bakery ever did. I’m not complaining; it’s what pays the bills, reporting on the haunting murder capital of the world, all while wearing Glasshouse Cosmetic lipstick in shade Fatal Kiss and a false smile of hope.

What can I say? I’m a people person.

According to the town, I was the “People’s Princess” of the news. Well respected and loved. This summer, I attended over fifty picnic BBQs with the townspeople and their families, including pets.

I enjoy giving back to the community, getting involved and most importantly, showing them that I am extremely hands-on. I assume that’s why I am so loved, that’s why I’m so…wanted—touching, really, when you think about it.

The winters in EastBriar were exactly how they sounded. Fairytale-like. The name itself, EastBriar, evoked the soft, warm, and cosy feel of Hallmark movies that we all see and adore on our television screens. But that was just the façade of it all, for the last two years, the small town has seen more fallen victims than the rise of tourism in the entirety of Boston itself.

A once-robust population of 5,000 residents has dwindled to a modest number of 4,001. One more victim away from a thousand deaths in the time span of only two years.

It’s a mystery, a devastatingly haunting one, in which you see parents dropping their offspring off at the local schools as if it’s their last. God, you see the elderly look as if they are about to receive a visit from the Grim Reaper every time they leave their homes to collect their mail in the morning.

Now, with its darker, more gloomy wintry mornings, the sense of the murderer at large heightens. The Devil is within our grasp; however, they are in disguise as one of us.

Who? Is the real question.

“Collins!” Snaps me out of my thoughts, “What happened to your nails?” I hear my co-anchor Quinn Halston shriek as she rushes up to me in the taped off car park, her stilettos tossing snow. She takes my hands up to eye level, shaking her head like a disapproving mother, her cheeks winter-kissed, and the still-visible early sombre morning moon glows like a halo above her head.

“James won’t be happy.”

Our manager.

“I had trouble removing my red nail polish this morning.” Sighing, I blow a stray strand of my blonde hair out of my eyes, and I notice some red tinged on its tips, too.

Darn, I’m so messy.

“I was in such a rush to get to the scene before the breaking news aired, I must have missed a few spots,” I say reassuringly, pulling my hands back and tucking them securely into the pockets of my grey winter peacoat, my red winter boots rubbing against the ground below.

I should get more hydrogen peroxide and shampoo at the store today.

“Well, don’t worry, I have some nail polish remover in my purse. I’ll let you use some before James gets here. The man is anal. I wore brown stockings one time on camera, and he flipped. God knows he’d had a stroke if he saw your nails in such a state.” Quinn continues to ramble about her ex, toying with a few concerned words about today’s breaking news report that Quinn and everyone else still know very little about. At the same time, I try my best to space her words out, looking at today’s gory scene in front—the Morning Gazette Office.

Snow covered and equally as piercing with its death-like look. Even without knowing about the murder that took place within those walls last night, you’d know for sure that something was off. The air was heavy with the spirit of the person who lost their life.

Who knew someone could take the crime straight to the source where it’s reported? Whoever it was saved us all the trip and hassle of having to drive a half hour to the other side of town just to be filmed beside yellow caution tape and two grumpy-looking police officers. I have to be thankful for something, let it be the saving of fuel money and early morning rises. I’m not a morning person.

“I heard…” Quinn leans in conspicuously. I watch her throat gulp, her jugular looking extra attractive this morning, “The back office is a complete mess. Blood, everywhere.” My head tilts to the side slightly as I inhale the crisp air; a blue jaybird on a branch beside us jeers.

Today’s going to be a long one.

“He hasn’t replied.”

I frown slightly, turning my attention back to Quinn, “Who hasn’t? Your ex?”

“No, silly. James. James, our boss.” She nibbles on a piece of roughened skin on her right thumb, staring ahead at a crew of white-caded forensic specialists rolling a body bag on a stretcher out the double royal blue doors of the office. The swinging creak of the old Colonial-style doors sends a shiver down my spine, which could also be reminiscent of warmth.

A more accurate word would be ‘confusing.’

“Did you text him?”

“Mhm.” She nods, “I wanted his feedback on the news article I wrote for the town hall charity scandal that happened last weekend and usually with James and his…personality, if you will, would respond within the first five minutes, you know him as well as me, but no, he didn’t, not even after ten text messages and five phone calls.” She pulls out her phone to show me proof of his disappearance, and, to her word, all I see are unread messages and unanswered phone calls. Mhmm…where could he have gone, I wonder?

“I’m sure he has a valid explanation for his absence,” I say, uninterested, but seeing the panicked look on my friend’s face, I continue reluctantly, “Maybe he was meeting someone? Or fell asleep early?” I offer, squeezing Quinn’s shoulder, trying to ease her nerves. Police officers ahead begin taping off more of the area while members of the public are ushered back, horror etched on their faces, wondering if they are next. “Maybe.” She says, unconvinced. “Are you two still not on good terms after last week’s fiasco?”

Rolling my eyes, I shake my head dismisively. James Sutherland and I have never been on good terms, just the typical walking on eggshells relationship; some people aren’t meant to get along. That was him and me in a nutshell. However, last week? That’s when it hit an all-time low.

EastBriar, besides its beauty and horror, wasn’t where I was meant to be. I know deep down in my heart I am for the big leagues. Think, New York Times, CNN, Fox News. I was made for opportunities that would get my name in the headlines and reports. I wanted to be known.

The Local Morning Gazette was a stepping stone on my path to the big leagues.

I wanted out.

To leave the horror movie that is EastBriar. Last week, I found out James had sacrificed my only opportunity to leave this small-town news station, and that’s when it cracked. The arguing, the shouting, the horrid words unmentionable that were uttered by both our mouths when I found out James Sutherland, my boss, my mentor, the man who told me two years ago, before the hatred, I was made for great things said to the entire office he was accepting a position that was meant for me at one of the most prominent news outlets in all of America.

My vision went red, and so did his…just in a different way. He forged my application, using my information for his own gain, with his name on it. A jealous man stole my dream. I hadn’t told him I applied, but when he found my application sitting on my desk, hidden beneath papers, something clicked in his mind.

He wanted to end me. So I just had to en—

“Collins!” Quinn shakes my shoulder abruptly, and I see a short, round man in all black, his mouth pressed against his walkie-talkie with muffled words as he approaches us solemnly—the deputy.

“Excuse me, ladies, but you two are the two lead reporters here at this news station?” We nod, holding out our ID lanyards, Quinn gripping my elbow anxiously, while the deputy rubs the back of his neck, pained. “We have information regarding the murder that took place here last night.”

“Who was it?” is the only thing both of us can manage to say without crumbling, and when the deputy holds up a bloodied lanyard in an evidence bag with a familiar face, we both know. The pit in our stomachs blooms into a dying garden of sickness.

“James. James Sutherland.”

————————————————

Blood. Everywhere.

Everywhere where blood shouldn’t be, blood should be in bodies, not splashed and adorning the furniture and office of James Sutherland. Uncontrollable wails from Quinn fill the air along with chatter from the police and the forensic team in the reception. Reporters can be seen in the distance; they gathered in the last hour since the news broke. I stand in the entry, the only part open for anyone—authorised personnel—to stand freely, gowned up for extra precaution. Quinn gets questioned in a nearby corner, her nails digging into the fabric of the armchair she is sitting on, while I can see perfectly through the rectangular window that views straight into James’s office. A woman snaps photographs for evidence purposes. The still-wet blood stain on the creaking wooden floors where James Sutherland once lay catches my eye.

I mourn the man he could never become. The coffee cup is still half full; the torn papers are still scattered on the floor next to his blood. A forest green trench hangs carelessly over his oval brown leather desk chair, untouched, yet never unseen by the things it must have witnessed only hours ago. If inanimate objects could talk, they’d be screaming, just like how I know James was.

According to what forensics can tell before a proper investigation can take place, he suffered a hefty blow to his head, along with the dismemberment of both his hands and his tongue.

The weapon of choice remains undiscovered.

Gruesome. Oh, so very gruesome. What kind of monster could have committed such an act?

Tut, tut...

I wipe the tears that have managed to roll down my cheeks with the back of my hand. The scent of iron—the smell of blood—lingers, and I can’t tell if it’s from his office, the air, or my—

“Miss Vale?” Someone taps me on my shoulder, and I turn. My bloodshot, tear-stained eyes must startle the detective, causing her to pause and move more slowly than she needs to.

“Yes, detective?” I say hoarsely, clearing my throat. “Collins Vale, is it?” She asks, checking something on her clipboard, which she holds firmly in both hands. I nod, following her outside the premises. “I’m Detective Bosch, Julia Bosch. I’m sure you remember me from the previous crimes that have been committed in recent years.” She lets out a humourless laugh, which I reciprocate politely. All these formalities do start to get old, but it’s just protocol, I remind myself.

The outside winter wind howls, and the clicking of cameras and cries all around fill the chilling air, which feels ten degrees colder than it actually is. Death brings a season indescribable, not like winter, but more like a silence that screams louder than any winter gale could ever do.

How could someone do such a thing? I keep asking myself, and the only answer my mind can come up with is…why not? With a heedless shrug, my mind replies to those two words.

People are sick.

“You are the preferred correspondent on murder cases here, I remember correctly?” She continues, scratching her red pen against the clipboard—the sound reminds me of something I can’t quite recall.

“Yes, I suppose I am. Why do you ask?” My arms cross.

“Only because I assume this whole situation is such a shock with the murder of your boss. I can’t imagine you’d feel comfortable or ready to report on this so soon. We have suspended further reports from the station until you and other colleagues are prepared to report.” Her sympathetic smile does nothing to stir the feelings I have within; instead, I match her smile tightly.

“That means a lot,” I reply, looking down at my red boots, stained with a darker red; five claw-like marks adorn the tip of my left boot. I never knew my shoes had such an interesting pattern. Mhmm, how cute.

“My colleague will need a statement from you after Miss Halston has finished being questioned,” the detective continues, scribbling something illegible to me.

“Will that be necessary?”

“It’s protocol, Miss Vale. I’m sure you are aware of that by now.” Oh, I am.

Nodding, I directed my gaze to the car park, staring at my vehicle, parked ever so neatly out of view of street cameras. “I know it is still early doors here, but do you have any leads on who could have done such a heinous crime?” The worry in my voice is thick, concerned, terrified of a murderer at large, which is what I try to convey, and if I’m being honest, it’s an effortless act to play given we live in a murderer’s world. Everyone is on edge, criminal or not; we are all alike.

“I shouldn’t be disclosing this information since it’s not set in stone yet; however, my colleagues say you are the most trusted person here besides God.” She lets out a small laugh, “Like every crime scene we have seen in the last two years, the same evidence is placed beside the victim.” The side of my lips quirked slightly before composing smoothly, my gaze reaching hers,

“The lipstick,” I state, already knowing the answer.

“Yes, Glasshouse Cosmetic lipstick in shade Fatal Kiss. Weirdly, it’s always a new one, so we can’t even gather DNA or any evidence from it.” She sighs, “It’s as if the murderer leaves it as an offering which provides us nothing but a taunting game.”

In this day and age, we can hardly assume the criminal is female; after all, collective groups of men do dabble in cosmetics. Mhm, very percurliur indeed. Lovely shade of red, I will admit, I do own a few myself. Great for late-night dates.

“Detective Bosch, we are ready for Miss Vales’ statement and questioning.” A man’s head pops out from the entrance of the office, and they both look at me before nodding, “Could I have a moment?” I start looking between the pair, “Just to get something out of my car?”

“Sure, just be quick. We’ll wait for you inside.” The man says, with a smile, holding the door open for Detective Bosch. Once they are both out of sight, I smile slightly to myself, head lowered, heading to my car.

————————————————

People watched as their beloved news reporter, me, walked back to her car. I made sure to look extra distressed, you know, throw in a few gasps of air and a pained clutch to my chest. “My boss! Not my boss!” I wail out, and I hear distant cries from the people at my chosen words. They are buying it. Like always. Very Oscar-worthy, in my opinion. I have been doing this for two years, essentially like Meryl Streep of acting, as if I have not been EastBriar’s murderer on the loose.

As soon as I was out of eye view, I spotted my car parked exactly where I had left it last night.

I never went home.

I stayed watching James Sutherland feel not even a smidge of what I felt last week and all the weeks before it. I was gracious to him, even in his final moments. He couldn’t forge my applications anymore without hands or a mouth to brag his high and mighty “I got accepted to work for one of the biggest news stations in America!” Anymore.

I let out a slight chuckle to myself as I unlock my car door. They want me to give a statement. The detectives. Isn’t that hilarious?! My whole life, or at least my whole working career, has been a series of statements, words delivered into microphones, words printed perfectly on front pages, words bent into shapes to make people believe.

I was born speaking in headlines. I was born a murderer.

Taking a breath, I reached into the backseat where I kept a large duffel bag containing an array of unused lipsticks. I need a new one. It’s great having a stash of extras for emergencies. I smoothed my lipstick perfectly, no smudge, no mistakes, in the car’s rearview mirror—Glasshouse Cosmetic lipstick in shade Fatal Kiss glossed over my lips.

The colour of ambition, the colour of aftermath, the colour of murder.

By the time the car was locked, I wasn’t nervous. If anything, I felt lighter. Like I’d finally put the period at the end of a sentence that had been dragging too long. Just like James Sutherland’s blood-curdling scream last night, it was just a bit too long for my liking.

I can’t undo it. My crimes.

And…nor do I really want to, after all, I wanted to be known. I never said whose name would have to bleed into print to get me there. Fame is fame. They wanted headlines. They just never specified whose and how they got there. I took too creative liberty, isn’t that what this job is about?

Consider this my final byline.

This is Collins Vale reporting murder at the Morning Gazette offices. Stay safe…or not.