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Chapter 9 by RedRightHand RedRightHand

What's next?

Search the Desk

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I stare at Lily Argent's desk, her empty chair a haunting absence. The scent of jasmine lingers in the air, mingling with the faintest hint of blood. My heart aches, thinking of the woman who once filled this space with her spirit. The desk sits bare, as if it's been picked apart. Wires protrude from the surface, evidence of the once present computer.

The York County Sheriff's Department has already searched here and taken anything that might be evidence. I sift through the clutter anyway, looking for anything they might have missed, any clue to shed light on the tragedy that unfolded here.

I come across a letter addressed to Lily, from the campus therapist, Doctor Catherine Bennet. My heart sinks as I read her recommendation for immediate hospitalization, detailing a worsening state of mental health. There's something odd, though. There's no postmark, but it is stamped. It could have been hand delivered, but then why the stamp?

I turn my attention to her journal, flipping through the pages, searching for any hint of a dark secret. Inside are recorded moments of joy, of love, and of pain, but nothing that would directly suggest her tragic end. It's perfect, almost too perfect, as if it is all fake, a prop. I shuffle through the pages again.

A crumpled photograph catches my eye, tucked between the pages of the journal. I smooth out the wrinkles, and there I see Lily, her smile radiant, her eyes filled with a depth of emotion that words could never describe. It's a moment that, perhaps, she held onto in her darkest days. I place the photograph and journal back in their respective spots, the weight of Lily's pain heavy on my heart.

My gaze rests on the drawers, my intuition telling me there might be more here. I pull open the top drawer, finding it empty, save for a faint indentation on the back wall. I push hard against the indentation, revealing a hidden compartment. Inside, a small, handwritten note rests, the paper slightly tattered from age. I carefully remove the note and unfold it, my eyes scanning the handwritten words.

What's next?

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