Chapter One
I stare at the laptop—an innocent little device, but not so innocent when it belonged to someone else. Someone who was a friend. Someone who is dead. I don’t know what’s on it; I haven’t switched it on yet. I borrowed it from her and now she is dead. Murdered is the right word. Why Lottie? Her of all people? She died alone and helpless and the last face she saw before her final breath left her was of her killer. Tears roll down my cheeks. I crouch down and cover my face with my hands. I let it flood out of me. It hasn’t sunk in yet—it’s been a few days and still I can’t believe it. Who would want Lottie dead? I wipe my tears away as if someone can see me. My forehead is moist with sweat while my brain works out what I can do. There are two possibilities:
Head to the police station and hand the laptop over. It’s part of a murder investigation now, and the police are going to search for it. It belongs in an evidence bag with all the rest of her belongings.
Hand the laptop over after I see what is on it.
My laptop broke down and I had to do some designs; being the nice girl she was, Lottie offered to lend me hers. That was a week ago; three days later, she was dead. How had this happened? Lottie didn’t have enemies, at least not the kind who’d wish her dead. What am I going to do?
It creeps on me to switch the laptop on to see what’s on it. It’s about time the police came knocking. They must have gathered a basic list of who they need to speak to by now. It tears me apart knowing Lottie is gone forever, out of my life. All I have left are the memories of what we shared.
I turn on the gas; the cooker goes poof. I bend forwards, leaning my head closer and inhale. The gas fills my lungs and I explode in fits of coughs. What am I doing? I switch off the stove and look around my tiny kitchen with its blue walls. I find the colour serene and peaceful. It relaxes me. My kitchen is basic with a stove, a fridge and a few pots and pans hanging on the wall. A wooden table at the side. A window overlooking the backyard of the flat. The birds are singing and my neighbour, whose name I can’t remember, is watering the plants. I cough again and I light a match, turning the cooker back on. Yellow flames come to life on the stove and I put the kettle on.
I emerge in the living room; it has coffee-coloured walls and a white ceiling. There are large bow windows, with red curtains and matching fitted carpet. I walk to the unused fireplace. On the cover are photos of me with Davian. My childhood friend. Davian and I work for the same company, Visage, an art company owned by Giselle Pearson.
There are other photos of me taken in exhibitions and art galleries. I don’t have any with Lottie. We didn’t take pictures; now I wish we had. I have all sorts of sculptures I made myself on the floor and on the furniture. The living room is cluttered with artistic stuff. I am a sculptor by profession, self-taught but took art in college. I spot a bottle of vodka, grab it by the neck, unscrew the top and take a large gulp. The liquid swooshes down my throat, making my chest burn as if it’s set on fire. I wipe my mouth on my sleeve and pull a disgusted face. I was never a big fan of vodka.
I sit in front of the desk and stare down at the laptop. What’s on it scares me. All I have to do is switch it on. I have the password. Lottie had given it to me, and it’s saved on my phone. I see what’s on it and find a way to give it to the police. I exhale and take out a cigarette from its packet with a trembling hand. I can almost feel her presence, Lottie placing her hand on my shoulder. I glance back with a hope and I see her smiling down at me, but no one is there. I rub my face with my hands and light the cigarette. If I give this to the police once I’m done, will they run it for prints? The kettle screams in the kitchen. The chair scrapes on the floor as I rise. I shut the kettle up and start to open drawers and cupboards. So much shit; do I really need all these utensils? How did this piece of clay get here?
I find a pair of yellow washing-up gloves in the cupboard under the sink. My cigarette has turned to ash. I kindle another. I catch my reflection from the screen, my wavy longish dark hair, golden skin tone, green hazel eyes and heart-shaped face.
I press the power button and the laptop comes to life, ready to hit me with whatever it contains. Maybe, I’m fussing over nothing. I input the password and wait for it to boot. The home screen appears for a moment, and I think a picture of her might appear. I don’t think I can take it, seeing her picture right now. To my relief, it’s a scene of a beach somewhere. I’m guessing Thailand. Lottie always said she wanted to go. It’s a shame the only glimpse of Thailand she had is from a desktop. Her toes will never touch the sand and the sun will never kiss her skin.
It feels wrong doing this, snooping over my friend’s computer; it’s like I’m invading her privacy. She wouldn’t know but still, it doesn’t feel right.
I don’t think she used this laptop a lot. Judging from its appearance, it’s in mint condition. I take a deep breath as I move the console to her emails; nothing looks important. Spam, junk mail and offers from online shops. Boring stuff. Next, I go the folder titled Photos and they start to load one by one. I lower my head and my eyes start to water. It’s too painful, the wounds are too fresh. Why am I doing this? I have to do this. I must do this. I need to do this. This laptop is the only link I have left of her, the only connection between us. I have to find out what happened and this laptop might have something that might lead to a clue to why she was killed. I can’t think of anyone who would want her dead. Lottie was a quiet, reserved girl, who didn’t bother anyone and no one bothered her. She had me and Ella as her friends and people at work liked her. She had a good relationship with her parents. Never did drugs or slept around and drank to the bare minimum. She had boyfriends, some good, and some bad. Nothing too dramatic, and then there was him. Davian. Lottie always had been fascinated with him. She thought he was the prettiest man she had ever seen. Lottie worked with him. I can call Davian, but I don’t want to be around people.
I skip the photos for now and go to her documents. There is one single folder. I click on it and it asks me for the password. I blink at the screen. What did Lottie have to hide that needed a password? Nude photos of herself? So, when years have gone by, she could look at them to see what a knockout she was? A sex tape? What?
I type Lottie Gibson.
Nothing.
Her mobile number.
Nothing happens.
I type my name for the hell of it.
No success.
I huff, giving up. Something has to be important in that folder if she felt the need to have it password protected. I click on videos. I catch my breath as a set of videos start to load. My blood goes cold and my muscles tense as I move the console to the first video clip titled ‘one’, the last clip is titled ‘fifteen’. The first clip was uploaded a year ago and the last clip two weeks ago. I press the play button and her face comes alive before me. I slip off the chair and land on my arse as her voice fills the room. What kind of fucked-up shit is this?
I get up, stop the video. I grip my hair with my fingers. I shiver as tears sting my eyes. I get up and look out the window to distract myself from this discovery. It’s a beautiful Monday morning and the sun is out with cumulus humilis clouds in the blue sky. The same woman from across the street is preparing her son for school. A man comes out from the next block holding a briefcase. He waves to the woman and says something to her son. Do these people care my friend is dead? How can they prepare their kids to school or go to work and wave at each other and say good morning? When the most important thing is Lottie’s death. What’s more important than her death right now?