You Could Always Ask Cecile

Meet the Grants. They live in an ordinary home, and are an ordinary family with ordinary jobs and pastimes. Then meet Cecile. She's dead.
But what happened to make her that way?
I don't know.
There's only two people who do.
The murderer won't tell.
But you could always ask Cecile.

The fab cover is made by Lily Anna:)


2. Three years later.

The telephone rang once again, its irritating buzzing sound bursting into the quiet office. The muscly young woman behind the desk it was propped on rolled her misty grey eyes in annoyance before lazily extending an arm to reach for the receiver.

Running her free hand through her thick, dark hair locks, her calm, practiced voice only revealed a hint of exasperation when she spoke.


A man's voice, deep and urgent came through from the other side of the line. From the way he sounded, the woman rather fancied that he had a large, noticibley prominent nose, and perhaps a pair of sharp and quick witted brown eyes. Probably reporting a neighbours lost kitten or something. Yes, he seemed that sort of type. Good natured, pleasant to be around and utterly and completely boring. "Hello? Can I spea-"

"Who's speaking please?" the woman quickly interjected, curious to see if the name would fit with the person she'd conjured up in her mind.

"Oh, ah... Simon. Simon Grant. If you wouldn't mind could I please speak to Miss Mkent?"

Flicking her hair back behind an ear, the woman frowned slightly. Simon fit with her character, he was very 'I capture the castle,'  but Maleham? It just didn't sound right with the voice. And besides, she was sure she'd heard the name somewhere before. "Speaking."

"Oh. Miss. Mkent. You see...there's been a suspected.." the male's voice lowered abruptly to a mere whisper, "...murder."

The woman's attention levels flickered suddenly upwards, her interest captured almost immediately after her client mentioned the crime. "You can call me Hillary. It's a small world Mr. Grant, and we live short lives. My name's Hillary. Now. Where do you live and I'll be right to you."

Hillary's shoulders eased backwards as she slumped slightly on her office chair. Sighing in relief, she allowed a wide grin to spread across her freckled face.

At last.

Someone had committed a crime more interesting than stealing Mrs. Jones's kitten.

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