The Letters of Deceit

This is a story I wrote in about 30 minutes (on paper) for my writing group last week. The task was to use three ‘exercise sticks’ to create a short story - we just picked one from each category and went with it. It took me a minute to figure out how to connect them, I think it came across how I wanted it to. Here’s my sentences:

First Sentence - My only defence was to write down every word they said

Non Sequitur - She found him in the Terminal Bar and Grill. He was sober, for a change.

Last Straw - the way he writes with both his left and right hands.

My only defence was to write down every word they said. Everything, from the moment he stepped through the door, until the very second the officers arrived on my porch - write every word they said in front of me. I guess it was a good thing my memory was always so strong, because I could feel the panic rising in me long before those flashing red and blue lights came into view.

“And where was your fiance before this happened?”

I looked up from my page-long statement, the one I had read over and over since I placed that last full stop. The ink had long dried up, but the pen cap still sat alone on the table, waiting patiently for its brother to rejoin him. I kept twirling the fountain pen between my fingers and looked up to the officer. He had a pale, pointed face and light stubble starting to take over. A notepad in his hand, he flicked back and forwards between the pages - no doubt reading through what information he’d already gathered from my sister, sat on the couch in the opposite room. She hadn’t written anything yet herself, given the fact her hands were cuffed tightly together, and she was being kept away from all sharp-ish objects while under careful watch of two younger officers.

The man before me looked up from his notes and asked again, “Where was your fiance before he returned here?”

My eyes flicked to the red patch on the rug. Not quite out of my line of sight, though I’d elected to sit as far as possible at the kitchen table. The pen kept spinning between my fingers. I hardly noticed.

“With my sister- well, she’d gone out to look for him.”

Staring hard at that dark stain, I faintly heard my sister’s voice in the other room. She was asking for a drink.

“And, where exactly were they?” The officer cleared his throat, and took a sip from his glass of water. My favourite glass - the one with the imprint of a paw on the side.

It thunked against the old wooden table when he placed it down, missing the carefully placed coaster - did he do that on purpose? Just another water ring to add to the collection.

My voice was small. “She found him in the Terminal Bar and Grill. He was sober, for a change.”

Someone walked into the room - one of the paramedics - and whispered something to this man before me. What was his name again? He nodded curtly at them, and they hurried off, knocking over the coat peg on the way through the door.

As he turned back to me, I saw his gold nametag reflect in the lamplight from the sidetable in the corner. JOHNSON. He shuffled his jacket too, and the badge underneath read SERGEANT - not officer, as I thought.

The pen stopped spinning in my hand and I heard the ambulance pull away - sirens blasting down the street. I pushed my chair back and stood, leaning toward the window to see- anything. The street was dark, much darker than it had been the last time I looked outside. The pane was cool against my palm, and I realised that I’d dropped the pen somewhere underneath the table. The few working streetlights shone down on a dozen or so police officers, still canvassing the yard and rolling out police tape. The second ambulance was still there, and in the dim light I could just make out the black bag lying on a stretcher, being wheeled inside. No lights, no siren. Nothing would be needed for him anymore.

“Miss Adams, please sit back down - I still have a few questions to ask you.” Sergeant Johnson’s voice was tired, as was she.

I stood there at the window, watching the ambulance until it rounded the corner. “Where will they take him now?” My throat had suddenly dried up and I felt the urge to cough, my voice hoarse. I felt my eyes prickle again. No, no more tears, not again tonight.

I saw the officer in the reflection. He rubbed his eyes and gestured to my empty seat. “That isn’t your concern at the moment. Please, take a seat.”

He placed his list of questions down in front of me on the table, and took another swig of his lukewarm tap water. Again, the glass couldn’t find the lonely coaster.

“How did you discover the notes were from your fiance?”

The notes - all in a mishapen pile on the coffee table, being carefully sorted through and placed in evidence bags. Hundreds of them, going back three years. All sent to my sister.

‘A secret admirer,’ she kept telling me, but never let me see anything - until this morning.

A hot tear fell onto my cheek, which I hastily swiped away. It ran along my finger, down to my engagement ring, and soaked into the damp sleeves of the oversized hoodie. I stared at that ring, and it almost felt heavier on my hand than it did earlier.

“His handwriting,” I choked out, sinking into the chair. “Ellie showed me the last one this morning, and I could tell straight away. He's done it before, thought it was brilliant how he was able to. I just didn't think he'd- it’s different, the way he writes with both his left and right hands.”