Between Here and the Horizon by Callie Hart

absolutely no idea what the hell you’re talking about!” Losing my temper wasn’t a helpful tactic, but my brain wasn’t working properly as it was and these vague questions were driving me to distraction. “If there’s something in there for me, then you should give it to me, surely?”
    Both officers shook their heads in unison. “I’m afraid the room’s a crime scene until the body’s been cleared of any foul play. The letter inside is evidence. We’ll need to read through it thoroughly before we can hand it over.”
    “Fine. I don’t even care right now. Can you just get a hold of CPS? The kids are too young for this kind of trauma, and I don’t have a clue how to handle any of it.”
    “Gentlemen.” A cold, flat voice slipped over my head, coming from behind me. The accent was even thicker than the officers’, and that was saying something. I turned, and standing in the open doorway of the house was a tall, narrow shouldered man with a pinched face and tufts of gray hair on either side of his otherwise bald head. The coat he was wearing was splattered across the shoulders with droplets of water.  
    “Mr. Linneman. Surprised it took you so long to get here,” Caruthers said, shifting his position, spreading his legs a little wider, blocking off as much of the hallway as he possibly could. “Ronan’s dead. Not much counsel you can provide him with now.”
    “I’m aware of Ronan’s condition,” the sparrow-like man in the doorway said dryly. He said the word condition , as if being dead were something Ronan might recover from. “I’m not here to assist him. I’m here for the girl.” His eyes flickered to me, resting somewhere above my head, like he couldn’t actually bring himself to make eye contact with me. “Ronan left very specific instructions should he die while Ophelia was at the house. I didn’t think I would need to come out here at the crack of dawn to execute his will less than twenty-four hours after she showed up, but there you go. Ronan always was quite… unpredictable .”
    Officer Hinchliffe snorted under his breath, apparently trying to rein in laughter. His cheeks had gone an unfortunate rosy color. “That’s one word for it,” he said, his voice strained. “Remember that time when he set the McInnes feed store on fire? You could see the smoke from Port Creef.”
    Caruthers gave him a swift, sharp dig in the ribs. “Yeah, well. He’ll not be setting fire to anything now, will he? Come on. Help me take pictures. They’ll be here for the body soon.” Both police officers vanished back into Ronan’s study, closing the door heavily behind them. I remained, frozen to the spot, trying to process, trying to come to terms with the fact that Ronan, who was very much alive and happy enough yesterday evening, had hanged himself and was dead. And moreover, no one seemed all that shocked or bothered by the news.  
    “Come, girl. I have a number of papers I need you to sign. Ronan left a lot of work for you to do, I’m afraid.” Mr. Linneman edged past me down the hallway, into the kitchen, where he placed a very old, worn brown leather briefcase onto the polished marble and snapped the catches open. Looking up at me, he frowned. “I don’t suppose you have a pen, do you? I’ve left mine at home, it seems.”
    I didn’t say anything for a moment. Inside Ronan’s study, a loud bang fractured the silence. Sounded like they’d tried to cut him down and dropped his body or something. Linneman flinched but didn’t say anything. He was waiting on me to produce something for him to write with.  
    “Uh, yes. I’m sure…there must be one around here somewhere.” Where the hell would Ronan have kept a stash of pens in this barely furnished, unlived in monstrosity? I hurried into the kitchen and began pulling drawers open. Eventually I came across a sleek, heavy, metal ballpoint that had The Fletcher Corporation printed neatly in gold down the side. “Here.”