Shannon again
I keep hoping I'm going to have written action scene for Wednesday and so far it's just talky stuff, but it's getting to the action I think.
Charlotte's shoulders relaxed slightly. “What kind of investigator are you?”
“A private investigator. Like in the movies.” I grinned at her. “You know, Dick Tracey, Shaft, that kind of thing.”
“Cool,” she said grudgingly. She glanced past me to Joyce. “Can I go now?”
Joyce looked from me to Taiki, as if waiting for permission. Taiki, the coward, busied himself flipping through one of his books. I stepped in again. “Would you mind showing me around upstairs?” I asked her, forcing a sheepish smile. “I can't remember where the bathroom is.”
She rolled her eyes, shot Joyce another dark glare, and stomped out of the kitchen. I followed, closing the kitchen door behind us. “I know this must be weird for you,” I said to Charlotte as she lead me upstairs.
“Weird? It's stupid. It's horrible. It's embarrassing.” She stopped in front of a door on the left of the wide, airy hall. “Bathroom's in there.”
“I know,” I said. “I just wanted an excuse to talk to you alone.”
She sighed heavily. “How much is Mum paying you to spy on me?”
“Why, will you double it if I go away?”
She pushed open another door to reveal her bedroom. I'd take a quick look around earlier, but Taiki had been so rigging up sensors and cameras and God knew what else, I hadn't stayed long. Charlotte gestured me in. In tune with her own appearance, her bedroom was a mix of proper and punky. Vanilla walls covered with fantasy art posters. A pink bed spread with black jeans and blood-red t-shirts strewn across it. The desk had a high-end laptop sitting on it, along with a mixture of books, some brightly-coloured novels, some grim-looking text books. I picked up a novel and smiled.
“Meredith Green. That's my girlfriend's favourite author.”
“Mum doesn't like me reading them.” Charlotte threw herself on the bed, kicking off her shoes with a satisfied sigh. “She says it encourages me.”
“Encourages you to do what?”
She shrugged. “I don't know. Be a psychotic fantasist, I suppose.”
I perched on the chair at the desk, assessing her quickly. There was a great tiredness in her voice that I hated to see in someone so young. The anger she'd demonstrated downstairs might just be teenage hormones. But it could also be a desperate girl lashing out. If Charlotte wasn't responsible for the events going on in Ninepins, her mother's decision to bring in investigators would seem like an attack and a betrayal. If she was responsible, Joyce's actions were cornering her. Either way, if I were Charlotte I'd be feeling pretty angry right now too.
“Why don't you tell me what's been happening?” I asked her.
“Hasn't Mum already told you?”
“Yes, but I'm more interested in your take on it. Your opinion is the most important to me.”
Charlotte sat up and fiddled with her bangles. The gentle clanging seemed to relax her; I saw the tension go out of her shoulders and that tired, hunted expression faded a little. “Do you believe in ghosts?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m sceptical, but I’m open to evidence.”
“I don’t believe in them,” she said flatly. “I mean, it’s dumb, it’s just stupid. When you die, you’re dead. If there were ghosts, really ghosts, how come there isn’t proof? People taking pictures of dust balls and saying they hear knocks in the ceiling isn’t proof, is it?”
“No,” I agreed, wondering if this was leading to a confession. “So what do you think is happening here? The mud in the sink, the broken crockery, the screaming at night…what’s it all about, Charlotte?” I tried to keep my voice level and interested, knowing that even a hint of accusation would drive her away.
She threw her hands up, sending bracelets clanking down her slender arms. “I don’t know! Everyone acts like I should know all about it and I don’t! But I don’t believe in ghosts and I didn’t break anything and I never hear any stupid screaming at night!” She rubbed her eyes and yawned hugely. “I sleep like, massively heavy. I never hear anything. Mum has to come and wake me up every morning because I sleep through the alarm clock.”
“Have you always been a heavy sleeper?” I asked, more to keep the conversation going than anything else. The more Charlotte talked, the more information I had to sort through later as I pieced this puzzle together.
She shook her head. “Mum says it’s just teenage hormones. Dad says he used to sleep like twelve hours a day when he was a kid.”
I flipped idly through one of the novels on her desk, wondering if Ayla had read this one. It looked fairly new; the cover a little more muted than the garish ones lining our bookshelves. “What does your dad make of all this?”
“He’s never here, is he?” There was a touch of bitterness in her voice, underscored with longing. “He’d say it was all stupid though. He’d definitely think it’s stupid for Mum to hire a bunch of investigators.”
“She’s worried about you.”
Charlotte rolled her eyes and held her hand out. “Can I have my book, please?”
I passed it over and stood, recognising the dismissal. “Thanks for talking to me.” I cast a quick glance at the two cameras in the room as I left; one regular in the right corner, one ultra-fancy heat-sensitive UV-detecting contraption in the left. I couldn’t wait to see what they picked up tonight, I honestly couldn’t.
Charlotte's shoulders relaxed slightly. “What kind of investigator are you?”
“A private investigator. Like in the movies.” I grinned at her. “You know, Dick Tracey, Shaft, that kind of thing.”
“Cool,” she said grudgingly. She glanced past me to Joyce. “Can I go now?”
Joyce looked from me to Taiki, as if waiting for permission. Taiki, the coward, busied himself flipping through one of his books. I stepped in again. “Would you mind showing me around upstairs?” I asked her, forcing a sheepish smile. “I can't remember where the bathroom is.”
She rolled her eyes, shot Joyce another dark glare, and stomped out of the kitchen. I followed, closing the kitchen door behind us. “I know this must be weird for you,” I said to Charlotte as she lead me upstairs.
“Weird? It's stupid. It's horrible. It's embarrassing.” She stopped in front of a door on the left of the wide, airy hall. “Bathroom's in there.”
“I know,” I said. “I just wanted an excuse to talk to you alone.”
She sighed heavily. “How much is Mum paying you to spy on me?”
“Why, will you double it if I go away?”
She pushed open another door to reveal her bedroom. I'd take a quick look around earlier, but Taiki had been so rigging up sensors and cameras and God knew what else, I hadn't stayed long. Charlotte gestured me in. In tune with her own appearance, her bedroom was a mix of proper and punky. Vanilla walls covered with fantasy art posters. A pink bed spread with black jeans and blood-red t-shirts strewn across it. The desk had a high-end laptop sitting on it, along with a mixture of books, some brightly-coloured novels, some grim-looking text books. I picked up a novel and smiled.
“Meredith Green. That's my girlfriend's favourite author.”
“Mum doesn't like me reading them.” Charlotte threw herself on the bed, kicking off her shoes with a satisfied sigh. “She says it encourages me.”
“Encourages you to do what?”
She shrugged. “I don't know. Be a psychotic fantasist, I suppose.”
I perched on the chair at the desk, assessing her quickly. There was a great tiredness in her voice that I hated to see in someone so young. The anger she'd demonstrated downstairs might just be teenage hormones. But it could also be a desperate girl lashing out. If Charlotte wasn't responsible for the events going on in Ninepins, her mother's decision to bring in investigators would seem like an attack and a betrayal. If she was responsible, Joyce's actions were cornering her. Either way, if I were Charlotte I'd be feeling pretty angry right now too.
“Why don't you tell me what's been happening?” I asked her.
“Hasn't Mum already told you?”
“Yes, but I'm more interested in your take on it. Your opinion is the most important to me.”
Charlotte sat up and fiddled with her bangles. The gentle clanging seemed to relax her; I saw the tension go out of her shoulders and that tired, hunted expression faded a little. “Do you believe in ghosts?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m sceptical, but I’m open to evidence.”
“I don’t believe in them,” she said flatly. “I mean, it’s dumb, it’s just stupid. When you die, you’re dead. If there were ghosts, really ghosts, how come there isn’t proof? People taking pictures of dust balls and saying they hear knocks in the ceiling isn’t proof, is it?”
“No,” I agreed, wondering if this was leading to a confession. “So what do you think is happening here? The mud in the sink, the broken crockery, the screaming at night…what’s it all about, Charlotte?” I tried to keep my voice level and interested, knowing that even a hint of accusation would drive her away.
She threw her hands up, sending bracelets clanking down her slender arms. “I don’t know! Everyone acts like I should know all about it and I don’t! But I don’t believe in ghosts and I didn’t break anything and I never hear any stupid screaming at night!” She rubbed her eyes and yawned hugely. “I sleep like, massively heavy. I never hear anything. Mum has to come and wake me up every morning because I sleep through the alarm clock.”
“Have you always been a heavy sleeper?” I asked, more to keep the conversation going than anything else. The more Charlotte talked, the more information I had to sort through later as I pieced this puzzle together.
She shook her head. “Mum says it’s just teenage hormones. Dad says he used to sleep like twelve hours a day when he was a kid.”
I flipped idly through one of the novels on her desk, wondering if Ayla had read this one. It looked fairly new; the cover a little more muted than the garish ones lining our bookshelves. “What does your dad make of all this?”
“He’s never here, is he?” There was a touch of bitterness in her voice, underscored with longing. “He’d say it was all stupid though. He’d definitely think it’s stupid for Mum to hire a bunch of investigators.”
“She’s worried about you.”
Charlotte rolled her eyes and held her hand out. “Can I have my book, please?”
I passed it over and stood, recognising the dismissal. “Thanks for talking to me.” I cast a quick glance at the two cameras in the room as I left; one regular in the right corner, one ultra-fancy heat-sensitive UV-detecting contraption in the left. I couldn’t wait to see what they picked up tonight, I honestly couldn’t.