Clear
"You were never actually a suspect, Miss Mason," the lawyer says.
For a second, Alessa's a little taken aback. She knows all those words, but they don't make sense together. She sits there for a few minutes with her mouth opening and closing like a goldfish's before she sits up a little straighter. "Excuse me?"
The lawyer, an impossibly well-groomed man named Kevin Marcourt, flips through some of the papers in front of him. "As a matter of fact, there were no suspects in your father's murder investigation. If I can speak frankly...?" Alessa nods, although it takes her a second. "Your father was killed with a rather large object that impaled him through the sternum; the officer who filled out the case report compared the entry and exit wounds to that made by a fence post. Ordinarily, they'd've assumed that the murderer did the deed somewhere else and brought the corpse to your home, but basic forensics disproved that theory."
He reaches up and adjusts his glasses. "In short, the individual who murdered your father is either almost freakishly strong or was wielding industrial equipment."
Alessa almost nods, or says something to confirm that. Instead, she looks down at her lap, because that seems safe.
"Given what you're saying about the Silent Hill cult, your motivations are fairly straightforward and understandable. We should be able to get this cleared up with all due speed," Marcourt says. He looks down at the case file again. It contains, among other things, the photographs of Cheryl that were scattered around the Otherworld version of that office building in San Francisco, and carefully chosen excerpts from Douglas Cartland's notebook. "It's an open-and-shut case, but the details are fascinating. It's just the sort of thing that your father would've written about."
"You've read his work?"
Marcourt nods. "A bit. Several of my colleagues are... were fans."
Alessa shakes her head. "I've never actually read any of his books. He said they were too gruesome for me."
"It's a shame, really." Marcort puts the case file inside his briefcase, then stands up. "I'd imagine you'd like to be put in touch with his executor?"
"Yes. Please."
For a second, Alessa's a little taken aback. She knows all those words, but they don't make sense together. She sits there for a few minutes with her mouth opening and closing like a goldfish's before she sits up a little straighter. "Excuse me?"
The lawyer, an impossibly well-groomed man named Kevin Marcourt, flips through some of the papers in front of him. "As a matter of fact, there were no suspects in your father's murder investigation. If I can speak frankly...?" Alessa nods, although it takes her a second. "Your father was killed with a rather large object that impaled him through the sternum; the officer who filled out the case report compared the entry and exit wounds to that made by a fence post. Ordinarily, they'd've assumed that the murderer did the deed somewhere else and brought the corpse to your home, but basic forensics disproved that theory."
He reaches up and adjusts his glasses. "In short, the individual who murdered your father is either almost freakishly strong or was wielding industrial equipment."
Alessa almost nods, or says something to confirm that. Instead, she looks down at her lap, because that seems safe.
"Given what you're saying about the Silent Hill cult, your motivations are fairly straightforward and understandable. We should be able to get this cleared up with all due speed," Marcourt says. He looks down at the case file again. It contains, among other things, the photographs of Cheryl that were scattered around the Otherworld version of that office building in San Francisco, and carefully chosen excerpts from Douglas Cartland's notebook. "It's an open-and-shut case, but the details are fascinating. It's just the sort of thing that your father would've written about."
"You've read his work?"
Marcourt nods. "A bit. Several of my colleagues are... were fans."
Alessa shakes her head. "I've never actually read any of his books. He said they were too gruesome for me."
"It's a shame, really." Marcort puts the case file inside his briefcase, then stands up. "I'd imagine you'd like to be put in touch with his executor?"
"Yes. Please."