Miss No One, Mark Ayre [romantic love story reading .TXT] 📗

trying to take controlled breaths hadn't occurred suggested this person was already deep in the panic jar.

Abbie had a few ideas about what might cause such panic. But why guess when the answers lay so close at hand?

Breathing like that could be faked, but it was difficult—the work of a master actor.

Abbie never ruled anything out but doubted the breather was putting on a show. Why bother? If she knew Abbie was following, why not leave the door ajar and wait on the other side? If Abbie stepped through, the figure would have the upper hand. The drama provided no advantage.

Thus, whoever was on the door's other side was no threat. Not in this state.

Abbie made up her mind. She had to go in. Her dream had led her to this town, and upon arriving, the figure was the first person she'd seen. Abbie was supposed to be here.

Taking the handle, Abbie pushed the door, stepped into the room, turned towards the panicked breather.

Abbie was alert. The first sign of a gun, and she'd toss herself back into the hall. For a knife, she'd jump the other way. Keep in the room and try to disorientate her master actor enemy.

As it happened, Abbie did see a knife, but it signalled no danger.

The hooded figure wasn’t holding the blade; it was beside her knee. Its once gleaming surface was coated in blood. Blood also surrounded the edge and was pooling on the carpet. Ruining the carpet.

That was okay. It was old, tatty. It needed replacing anyway.

The carpet, not the knife.

The figure was on her knees, her head bowed. Maybe the breathing could be faked, but the pale skin and trembling hands could not. Panic was becoming shock. Like one of the Ice Queen's statues, the woman was frozen to the spot.

Possibly, she had known Abbie was coming. Maybe she was a clumsy villain, in which case she might have planned to stab Abbie with the blade but instead stabbed herself. The blood might have been hers.

This was possible, but the chances were beyond slim. The figure's dark clothes were intact, and the woman seemed unharmed.

Much more likely, then, that the knife had been used to kill the rotund man who lay on the carpet; his eyes wide with horror, his throat split into a grotesque grin.

Yes, that felt like the better theory.

Two

Though Abbie hadn’t snuck into the room, it appeared the woman crouched over the dead man hadn’t heard her and would never notice her if left to her own devices.

So Abbie said, “Hiya.”

And the woman’s head shot up, and she jumped back with a gasp.

“Who the hell are you?”

Abbie tilted her head. Didn’t step towards the woman who had now backed up to the desk. She was pleased to see she had nailed the gender call. Beneath the hood was a pale-skinned female with shoulder-length dirty blonde hair and green eyes. Her lips were thin, and she wore no makeup. Not that many women did while breaking and entering at one thirty am. She was a few years younger than Abbie. Early twenties. Abbie tried a comforting smile.

“I’m Abbie. You look afraid of me, but shouldn’t it be the other way around? After all, you’re the murderer. Murderers are scary. Or so I've heard it said.”

Kneeling over the dead man, the woman had been snared by panic-induced indecision. Abbie’s introduction seemed to have snapped her from stasis. Leaning against the office’s desk, she started to regulate her breathing. Forcing herself back under control.

That was good. A rational conversation could no doubt ensue.

While the mysterious hooded woman continued getting herself together, Abbie stepped forward and looked over the dead man.

No need to check his pulse. The killer had struck with ruthless efficiency. Maybe they'd first thrown a few punches to the gut. Perhaps they'd snuck up behind. Either way, how the altercation had ended was clear. With the killer going at the victim's throat like they were carving a turkey—a turkey the killer had recently caught in bed with their wife.

Calming down, the woman said again, “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“I’m still Abbie,” said still Abbie. “I’m new in town, and my mum taught me the importance of making friends in a new place. It grounds you. Helps you settle. Making a fast friend can be the difference between coming to love a place and wanting to get the next train out.”

Abbie paused. Someone had once told her this, but Abbie couldn’t remember who. It certainly hadn’t been her mother—a woman Abbie had despised and who never gave advice, only orders. Still, ‘mum’ sounded good in the context.

“You were the first person I saw,” Abbie continued. “Straight away, I knew we could be best friends. I watched you break in and considered waiting for you to leave, but once I get an idea, I’m like a dog with a bone. Can’t let it go and can’t wait. I scaled the fence and followed you so we could start getting to know each other right away. You ready? I thought we'd start with some quick-fire questions.”

The breathing was under control. Confusion and frustration, both directed at Abbie, had replaced shock and fear. That was nice. Abbie liked to help.

“This has to be some kind of sick joke,” said the woman.

Ignoring her, Abbie said, “First up: name, favourite colour, favourite passtime. Go.”

Clutching the desk, the woman pulled herself to feet.

“You’re psychotic.”

“Hey,” said Abbie, nodding at the dead man on the carpet. “Glass houses and all that. And wouldn’t you know, a glass house is exactly where we are.”

The office walls were more chrome than glass, but the ceiling seemed to be made of a single transparent sheet. Looking up, Abbie could see a sky littered with clouds. A fat moon poked through a few whisps, shining its searchlight on the office and corpse.

The woman didn’t want to entertain Abbie, the crazy person who appeared from nowhere and started asking semi-invasive questions. But it's hard to resist responding to a murder accusation. Only a