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You approach the figure through the cemetery fog. As she comes into focus, you realise who it is.
“Josephine?” you say softly.
She spins swiftly, a hand inside her pocket. On her face is a look of fear, then slow surprise.
“Detective? What are you doing here?”
“I’m sorry to have caused you alarm. I was visiting Pastor Bernard.”
You look down at the headstone before her. The engraving reads:
Andrew Eli O'Malley
1866 — 29 July 1895
Your courage and love
transcend all space and time.
“Would you prefer I leave?” you ask.
“No,” she says. “Please stay.” There is silence for a moment. “Is the Pastor alright?”
You reach as if to take off your hat, but of course it isn’t there. You look at the sky. Same result. “Actually, no. I don’t believe he is,” you say. “I just informed him that his missing boy is, in fact, deceased. I cannot imagine.” The breath from Josephine is sharp. You turn to her.
“Oh gods,” she chokes, and looks at you. “But I can.” Then tears begin to stream. And though you reach out, it is as if the fog stops your hand.
“I can stand it no longer,” she sobs. “The darkness
of unknowing — only imagining.”
“I don’t understand-”
“My girls!” she cries. “My beautiful, wondrous girls! I am so scared, Detective!” You wait, and watch her – a vicious battle raging bethind her eyes. She catches her breath and holds it. “You must understand, what is at stake. All this time, I’ve feared I would condemn them — that I would be their killer, simpy for seeking help. But now I must!” She grabs ahold of your arm. It is like a warm bite upon your heart. You steady yourself.
“I can help you, Josephine. But you have to tell me…”
“Blackburn!” she says. “Grayson Blackburn! I believe he has taken my girls!”
For a moment, all goes quiet. And then, like a flood, it pours from her: How first he came to her husband — this man he’d known back in Birmingham, had in fact financed the first stages of designing the Red Lord. But that was long ago – so many dealings, since. And as far as her Andrew knew, such things had long been settled. The man, though, would not let it go. And the more he threatened, the more Andrew understood: he could never let him have it. It was all he could do as it was — to try and keep what he’d created from causing further harm. But Blackburn would not let it go – had a goon on the inside, too. And then came the explosion.
“You think it was Blackburn that caused it?”
“It’s hard to say. What would he have got by killing Andy? But then he took the girls!” She gasps. “I still cannot believe it. This waking nightmare!”
“You’re sure it was him?”
Josephine nods. “Saw him in the paper. Was my Ma he talked to first. He came to our door, like you did, but struck her dumb. Can you imagine, quieting me Ma? Said ‘I got your little fairy girls, an’ I can turn ‘em into ghosts. ‘Cept if’n I get the designs to my big Red Lord’. Least that’s how Ma said he told it. And that he’d straightaway kill ‘em if we ever went to the cops. Then one time this man came to Vivi’. When he was leaving, I said “Do come again!” and he stops; walks straight over, moustache twitching on his grin, and says: ‘I surely will. Not for that trollop, but you can leave with her what’s mine.’ Then he just left. And that girl he’d paid for, said he never even touched her. But even if I wanted, Detective, I can’t just give him what he wants! No blueprints, plans or whatever he thinks. It was all just inside Andy’s head! And yet still that monster has our girls!”
You take a breath, unsure of how this news will land: “Ms. Josephine,” you say. “Grayson Blackburn was killed today. I saw him go myself.” And then you wait.
Whatever is happening deep below, her face reveals only confusion. She pulls something from her pocket, her hand shaking as she holds it out:
“But then who, Detective, left this on their father’s grave?”
Open Evidence D