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:)


4. Wrath upon the telephone.

Hillary Mkent, private detective, stormed up the steps to the flat above her office. Her lips a straight line of outrage, she slammed the door behind her with a resounding, echoing thud. How dare she, she, Hillary Grace Mkent, be prank called? It was unheard of! 

Her muted mobile beginning to vibrate, Hillary gave it one of her famed 'death stares'.

When the wasp like buzzing still refused to cease, the girl, every bone in her body throbbing with a vicious anger, grasped the phone in her self manicured hand and hurled it, ablaze with fury, at the opposite wall. It rebounded, and fell, useless, to the floor.

Yet her wrath was not yet over. 

Smiling grimly to herself, she flung the chair which stood between her and her laptop aside, as if it was merely some plaything she'd grown out of long ago. Standing squarely opposite it, she continued to log on to her account and proceed to one of the many trusty search engines she'd spent a rainy afternoon discovering.

Blaceck Hythe, the town in which she lived was the first words to be typed into the engine, followed by a comma, then Simon, then Grant.

I doubt, my dear reader, that it will surprise you that no results were found. 

No one under the name of Simon Grant lived anywhere in - or even around - the town of Blaceck Hythe.

Which only made Hillary more furious.

A loud rap on her office door cut sharply into her steaming rage, which, though at first she ignored it, persisted constantly and somewhat desperately. 

Despairing, the overly fed up detective,  lifted her hand dispiritedly to her temple to give what she felt was a well deserved massage. Making towards the steps, then deciding otherwise and advancing towards the lift, she began brushing her hair frantically with her nails, making some small effort to look presentable.

Despite calming herself enough to utter audible words once she'd arrived at the door, Hillary was not at ease enough to resist snapping to the other side of the door, "And if you're called Simon Grant, I don't ever want to know!" 

With that, the knocking took itself away instantly, along with Hillary's peace of mind. 

Seeing no colour but red, she stomped back the way she'd come, her mind in a frenzy, her heart beating faster than she'd ever imagined it could. 

Why had the knocking stopped? Could it be another prank? 

By the same person who lead her on a wild goose chase to what she'd come to know as 'The Incident', a time in which her feathers were most severely ruffled, no doubt.

Whatever the cause, the knocking had stopped, only starting off something far, far worse.

Hillary Grace Mkent flopped on her bed, in the worst mood since teenagers were invented. 


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