Who Killed Romeo

Chapter 4

Act 1, Scene 2

My eyes fluttered open slowly. From the smell of fresh books and the soft sound of pages turning, I judged that I’d fallen asleep in the library, again. My limbs were so heavy that I could barely move them and my head span so wildly that I refused to open my eyes. It wasn’t an odd occurrence for me to succumb to slumber wherever I was but it never left me any less confused and sore.

I once fell asleep on the piano while playing Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata to my Nana on her birthday. I’m not sure if she noticed the difference, though, my mum did have quite the shock when my face suddenly hit the keys with a loud and unsatisfying racket.

When I finally felt as though I could breathe normally again, I opened my eyes to the dim lighting of the school library. Looming bookcases that hid peering eyes canopied me in the corner and the window beside me beamed light from the grey sky outside. I noticed my neck had an uncomfortable crick when I lifted it to follow the table in front of me. A boy sat quietly in the seat opposite mine.

He leant over the table and scribbled quickly in his notebook as writing littered not only the pages but his brown skin too. I saw from the rolled-up sleeves of his sweatshirt that the words travelled across his wrists and snaked up his forearms like long and incoherent tattoos. From the deep crease in his brow, I saw that Heath Albion, the boy from last night, was lost in concentration; mumbling under his breath as he wrote erratically.

A travel mug sat directly in front of me and my fingers grazed the metal. It wasn’t mine.

“Heath,” I croaked and his head snapped up to meet my eyes.

I saw a slow grin travel up his lips as he greeted me cheerfully.

“Hello, Sleepy,” he joked. “I promise stalking you was definitely not on the agenda for today. But, you see, I came to the library to get a book and saw you asleep. So, I ran to the kitchen, begged them to fill my mug and then I ran back hoping you were still asleep, which you were. So, yeah, that’s your tea.” He gestured to the mug.

My hand wrapped around the warmth and I saw his name printed on the side in curly letters.

“Thanks,” I mumbled and took a sip. It was nice.

He waited a moment, watching me drink the tea and gauging my reaction. Then, he spoke, “So, my book?”

I didn’t sigh, or roll my eyes, or throw a tantrum. Instead, I cocked my head to the side and stared at him. I watched as he breathed deeply, how he licked his pink lips and flicked his soft curls out of his eyes.

I placed my elbows on the table and set my face in the palm of my hands. There was a sense of openness in his body language – like he was daring me to read his thoughts. It wasn’t arrogant or impolite, just confident and ready to show me everything.

“I know who you are,” I declared. “You’re Aabir Albion’s son, right?”

His brown eyes widened, only a fraction before they twinkled with amusement. Before bed, I’d done my research on the odd boy who’d snuck up on me in the kitchen last night and discovered some interesting facts. “Your father runs Portes Hotels, yes?”

“It was never a secret,” he shrugged.

“Do you know that my father and his brothers aren’t exactly your family’s biggest fan? Well, specifically your father’s biggest fan.”

Heath clicked the pen in his hand over and over again. “Yes, well that would make sense. Considering that your family and mine are in competition for the best hotels. Still, that has nothing to do with me.”

While he uttered those words, I almost believed him. His big brown eyes, wide with innocence, were easy to believe. But, I wasn’t easily swayed.

“My dad wouldn’t be happy to see me talking to you.” I leant back in my seat as my eyes followed his over the mug and I drank in not only the tea but his expression too. Heath leant over the table slightly in a challenge, with his chest puffed out and eyes swimming with playfulness. Like a puppy who didn’t quite know how small he was yet.

“Okay, Miss Capulet, just don’t tell him,” he smiled. I didn’t like how mischievous it seemed in just a glance.

“I suppose you’re Romeo, then?” I almost laughed.

“But soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, who is already sick and pale with grief. That though her maid art far more fair than she,” he announced dramatically and I fought a smile.

“You’re a theatre kid?” I propped a brow and placed the mug back onto the old wooden table, taking off the cap as the steam rose into the air, fluttering against the streaming light that the towering window beside us offered. It was a gloomy day outside, grey sky and harsh winds, but no rain.

“You’re a theatre kid?” I propped a brow and placed the mug back onto the old wooden table, taking off the cap as the steam rose into the air, fluttering against the streaming light that the towering window beside us offered. It was a gloomy day outside, grey sky and harsh winds, but no rain.

“More of a Shakespeare kid,” Heath corrected. “Before I started at Cosima Memphis, I made sure to request a spot in the theatre department. Whether that be backstage or on, I didn’t mind. But, then that terrible thing happened and I haven’t had the chance to speak to Mr D’Angelo since.”

I reached into the pocket on the inside of my blazer, one I’d stitched in messily myself in the early morning last year, and pulled out my flask. It was stainless steel, just as beautiful as the day I stole it from my father. Vodka sloshed around inside and I poured a good bit of it into the tea.

“Why are you writing this book?” I questioned.

Heath kept his eyes on me as he watched with a quizzical expression. Innocent and confused, I felt almost bad for corrupting him with my bad habits, even if it was just to watch. I felt a lot better about myself, though upon feeling the burn down my throat, the stir in my stomach and alcohol on my lips.

“I’ve always loved to write. Ever since I discovered that books don’t just appear, I’ve been eager.” He spoke slowly, watching my every move meticulously. Even with my one sip, the world seemed to return onto its axis.

“But why do you need to write it now? You’re so desperate, why not wait a few years until you fully evaluate it for yourself and write about it then?”

He sighed, loud and deep, with the pen in his left-hand clicking and clicking and clicking. He shut the notebook. “My dad wants me to go and work for him after school. He thinks it’s a good idea to apprentice first and then when he retires the business will go to a person he can trust…I don’t want to, though. And, I can’t just tell him that, you know? I’m not crazy, he’d yell and I hate when he yells because he gets upset and then my mum gets upset. The only way I’ll get out of this is if I write a book, get enough money to live and then I can just say no to my father. It’s not ideal but it’s the only thing I’m good at.”

I nodded slowly and allowed my shoulders to relax, taking the tea and sipping on it.

“I’ll really be doing my family a favour by letting you write this book then?” I shrugged. Say you get distracted by this book and Portes Hotel drowns under the pressure…well, that would be a shame.”

He shook his head amusedly and his black hair shone against the brief welcome of sun that peeked through the heavy clouds outside the window beside our table.

“So, why do you need me? Just figure it out yourself?”

“But you knew Archer! You could tell me about him, what was he like, who’d kill him and so on. Plus, you’re a suspect yourself! I’ve never been a suspect in a murder and I don’t know anyone else in the entire world who I could talk to about it with. If I want this book to be realistic and powerful and publishable – I need you.”

“You say you’re a mystery writer?”

“Yes,” he nodded enthusiastically. “Mystery thrillers with subplot romances.”

“You know, Heath,” I began lowly, placed the mug down and leant across the desk that separated us. I was close enough to see the raw excitement in his swirling brown eyes and it was so contagious and real that I almost felt the same, even without the vodka. “If you were a real mystery writer, you’d notice the person listening around the corner.”

His face dropped and I nodded my head toward the bookcase behind me. A sharp sound echoed from the books and the sound of bounding footsteps reverberated to our ears. Heath shot up instantly and followed it. Reluctantly, I accompanied, leaving my tea behind.

I watched as he sprinted down the corridor between towering bookshelves as the mystery person slunk into the shadows. They weaved through people and camouflaged with the shelves. Jumping over the piles of old books that littered the floor, Heath made the most sound that I’d ever heard in the library.

Instead of following Heath, I made my way quietly around the old stone walls and caught the end of the mystery person’s hood as they rushed around the corner. When I rounded the shelf, to my disappointment, the coast was clear. The person left no solid lead, not a footstep to display in what direction they ended up, or even a smell to track.

However, there was one thing. A tattered old notebook lay unattended on the floor. It was far too out of the way to belong to the library and so I picked it up and opened it.

While the book was littered with odd drawings, only one page held writing. The very first page. The handwriting was one I recognised so easily that it pained me not to name instantly. The name was stuck on the tip of my tongue, mocking me.

My chest filled with dread as I read the words. When Heath showed up behind me, his breathing heavy and uneven, he froze at the words too.

4/12/1982 – archer: romeo; peanut oil.

8/12/1982 – hazel: juliet; dagger

What struck me first was beside Hazel’s name, crossed out messily, was mine. In block letters, black ink and a line straight through. I thought of the possibility of this being a murder list and in that case, was I the next victim? Was I the first choice before Hazel?

“Is that today’s date?” Heath whispered. “Eighth of December?”

“Shit.” I cursed because it was.

Without even a second glance at him, I dropped the book and ran forward, out the library doors. I sprinted so fast that my legs burned and my lungs begged for a rest. The cold air bit at my face, I’d left my coat back in the library but I couldn’t quite concentrate on that now.

It was early, too early for Hazel Lowell to be anywhere other than at her morning dance rehearsal. The only time that she was ever on her own. The thought made me feel sick. I wasn’t friends with her but I couldn’t deal with any more deaths right now. This might not have been some morbid death list, though. And, if it wasn’t then I’d look like a maniac for running into her ballet room sweaty and panicked but I didn’t mind.

Not when my shoes hit against the frosty grass beneath my feet and I slipped back and forth on the ice. I had to make sure she was okay because something deep in my gut had doubts.

I wasn’t sure whether Heath had followed or not but I couldn’t hear anything other than the pounding of my heart and the rush of blood in my ears.

I tore open the door to the music block where doors upon doors lined before me with rooms filled with instruments to practise playing or singing and mirrors to dance in front of like Hazel was. She picked the same room every morning, with the same timetable every day.

I pushed on the door and stumbled inside as the smell of lavender hit me full force. My heart stopped at the silence. No shouts of protest, no music, or tapping of feet – not even a breath.

Hazel lay on the floor, blonde hair like sunshine now splayed across the vinyl and rosy cheeks drained free from the exuberance of life. Soft pink and crimson red blended together poisonously as blood dripped from her stomach and onto her rosy tights.

I screamed.