Young Writers Society

“Alice?”

I could feel my heart pounding as I knocked on my sister’s bedroom door. It was nine-thirty in the morning, a Saturday. I was frightened that something had gone wrong. Alice considered herself a morning person, and was almost always the first one to rise. Sometimes she would even make breakfast for Isabel and I. Occasionally if she was tired or had a long day at the studio she would sleep in, but yesterday she’d gotten home at two and had spent the evening relaxing. It was not the sort of day that would have made her sleep in past nine.

“Alice?” I said again, this time louder. Perhaps she was awake and didn’t hear me. Sometimes she’d lie in bed and read if she didn’t think anyone else in the family was awake or she didn’t have to be at the movie studio until later and wanted to ease into the morning.

No response. Cautiously, I opened the door. It was eerily silent. Alice wasn’t in sight. The sheets on her bed were unmade, and the clothes she’d worn the day before were draped over the side of the bed; she usually took her dirty clothes down to wash in the morning.

Before I could consider what had happened, I felt the humid August air against my arms and I noticed the door to her balcony was open. As the curtains flowed gently in the breeze, a foul smell entered the room. I was afraid of what I would see but I knew in my gut that I had to advance toward the door.

That’s when I stepped in a pool of blood. I didn’t register it until I swung the door open and saw Alice’s limp body lying on the balcony. Her white nightdress was stained red, and blood caked her arms, legs, and matted her black hair.

On instinct, my whole body shook and I turned away, covering my mouth with my hand. Then I screamed louder than I’d ever screamed before. A million emotions crossed my mind at once, and I felt numb from the shock of seeing my sister lying dead. Somehow, I understood that she was gone, that I would never see her again, but how her death would change my life, how much I would miss her—it didn’t occur to me then.

I kneeled on the floor, facing away frommy sister, and I began to sob uncontrollably. I’d seen Alice in the dining room not twelve hours ago, when she’d fixed tea for the both of us after Isabel had already gone to bed. We’d talked about school and the latest movie she was working on downtown. It was funny, because Alice had been acting in movies for three years now—since she was fifteen—and already she was beginning to be famous in her own right. Our father was equally famous though, since he ran a big steel company, but he was the one people hated. In their eyes, he represented everything people hated about corporate America, especially since it was the Depression and we were one of the last few families that still had money. Not that I’d want my father dead…but why would anyone kill Alice? Everyone loved her. She was eighteen years old, still had a lot of life to live and movies to star in.

That was when I heard a set of footsteps jolting up the stairs, and before I knew it I felt my father’s strong arms against my shoulders. He must have heard me scream and come to see what was the matter. When he saw what I saw, his body froze in stiff silence for a second or so, and then he released me from his arms, he overturned a nearby table with a potted plant on it’s side, shattering the vase into tiny pieces.

Then he screamed, except his was a scream of rage, not fear.

When he caught his breath, he turned to me.

“Clara,” he said. “Go downstairs and keep your mother and sister some company. I’ll be down in a minute.”

Not sure what to say, I nodded and darted down the stairs without question. The details of our home whizzed by in a blur, but somehow I was able to find my way to the patio where we always eat breakfast in the summertime.

Breakfast was laid out, and my mother held Isabel’s hand—their faces were both frozen in fear.

I approached them, and upon noticing the seat where Alice was supposed to sit, I broke down again into uncontrollable sobbing. I collapsed into my chair, trying to form words, but none came.

“What’s the matter?” Isabel asked. She scooted her chair closer to mine and let me place my head on her shoulder to cry.

Somehow I found enough energy to speak. “Alice is dead.”

“What?” Isabel said, gently gesturing for me to sit up. “How is that possible? I played her a piece on the piano last night—after dinner.”

“I had tea with her after.”

“What’s your father doing?” Mother said. Her voice was empty, weak, without feeling.

“I don’t know.”

We sat for a moment in silence, none of us knowing what to say. Mother burst into tears. My whole body felt heavy, like I was in some sort of trance—this couldn’t have been actually happening. Isabel, who pounded her firsts against the table, screamed, and stormed upstairs to her bedroom, broke my stupor. My mother and I regarded her but we were in too much shock to do anything. My sister had never been all there, and this sort of reaction was normal for her.

My father came downstairs then. “Where’s Isabel?” He said wearily.

“She just went upstairs,” I said.

“How did she die?” My mother asked.

“Someone killed her,” said father. “I don’t know how they got into our house…” His face was tight with rage and I was afraid he was going to break something else in our house, but instead he sat down next to my mother and cried in her arms. I don’t think I’d ever seen my father show emotion, and it was jarring to watch. “I called the police. They should be over soon. Make sure Isabel comes downstairs.”

We sat there, in those chairs, for what like forever. I was numb to the rest of the world, to the Los Angeles skyline in the horizon, the food sitting untouched on the table. I couldn’t get the image, the smell of Alice lying dead out of my head; she was such a wonderful person. Everyone loved her, and she had been killed so violently. I thought of Will Summers, who was probably out at his car dealership by now, trying to stay cool—unaware of the news we’d have to break to him later today. He and Alice loved each other very much—every time he came over to the house it was obvious to everyone.

A few minutes before the police arrived, Isabel rejoined us on the patio.

“Who killed her?” She demanded.

We stared at her blankly.

“Who killed her?” She asked, raising her voice.

“I don’t know, sweetie,” Father said. “The police should be here soon and we’re going to figure out?”

Then Isabel screamed and stormed back upstairs. A minute later we heard her playing the piano. I sat there silently with Mother and Father, not knowing what to say.

“Just leave her be for now,” said Father.

The rest of the day was a blur. We waited there, sitting silently, not saying anything. After what felt like an hour, my mother called Will Summers and told him to come over to the house and—trying not to choke-broke the news. Father was somehow able to get Isabel to calm down and make her come downstairs.

Will arrived shortly after everyone else. There were photographers that had to take photos of the crime scene for the case file. Then the doctors took her body away, and Alice’s bedroom was walled off. It was all a blur; about a half dozen officers from the LAPD were in and out of our house.

Will came when a detective was making introductions in the living room.

“I’m Detective Clark,” he said. He was a man of about forty, strong, athletic. When he shook my hand, he gave an aura that made it impossible not to trust him. He started to say something when he turned and saw will coming through the door, his eyes red, his blond hair a mess. “Excuse me, who are you?”

“I’m Will,” he said quietly.

“What’s your relationship to Alice Adams?”

“Her boyfriend….c-can I see her?”

“She’s already been taken in to the medical office,” Detective Clark said. “Perhaps later.”

“I thought Will might know something,” Mother said. “That’s why I told him to come over.”

“I don’t know anything!” Will shrieked. “If I did….”

“Shut up,” Father said angrily. “You’re a rotten piece of trash and you won’t be welcome in this house after today.”

“Alright,” Clark said. “Why don’t the five of you have a seat?”

We all sat down on the couch. Father and Will sat at opposite ends. For whatever reason—even though they had dated for a year and a half—my parents hated him, didn’t think he could be trusted and was just after our money. But that wasn’t true—he loved Alice, and Alice loved him.

“Now, can each of you tell me where you were last night?”

I spoke first. “I was home. After dinner, I went up to my bedroom to read. Alice came in at around nine pm and asked if I wanted tea. I said yes. She made the tea for us both down in the kitchen. I asked about Isabel—”

“I was already asleep.”

“I was just about to say that,” I said to Isabel, my voice in a nasty tone that I didn’t often use. “Anyway, we had tea. And then we both went to bed. And I woke up this morning and found her dead.”

The image came into my head again. I as best as I could to block it out, but it wouldn’t budge. I shook and started to cry. The detective waited patiently as Isabel let me put my head on her shoulder again.

“Okay,” Detective Clark said once I had stopped crying. “Was there anything in Alice’s tone that made her seem scared, nervous—anything out of the ordinary?”

I tried to think. “No,” I said.

He then turned to Will. “When was the last time you saw Miss Adams?”

Will paused. “Two days ago,” he said. “She came over to the car dealership where I work after she was done was done shooting a movie for the day.

“How long did you spend together?”

“Um, I don’t know, about an hour,” Will said. “I had to work, you know.” I noticed that he was looking at his feet, trying to avoid eye contact with the detective.

“Mhmm.” Detective Clark wrote everything we said down in his notepad.

“Have you guys had any fights recently?”

“No.”

“He’s lying,” Father said.

We all turned him, and he began to speak, his eyes on Isabel and I. “Don’t either of you remember what happened two weeks ago? When Alice came home crying from Will’s and the two of you consoled her? She wouldn’t tell me what had happened, but I have a pretty good idea.” He spoke about Will as if he wasn’t even there.

“It was about something stupid,” Will said. “We made up after that.” He looked over Mother and Father. “Come on—we spend almost every day together. I was just here three days ago. Did it look like we were fighting?”

“Kids keep everything from parents these days,” said Mother.

“What were you two fighting about, Will?” asked Detective Clark. While we spoke, he regarded us intently. I assumed it was all part of his job—to not only interpret words but also to investigate body languages, speech patterns.

“It was stupid,” Will said.

“What was it?”

“The last time she was over at my house,” Will said slowly, “She left her hat there. I saw it and put it on my nightstand, meaning to give it to her the next time she was over. It must have fallen over and I didn’t realize—because when she was over the next time, she saw it and got mad. We weren’t really that angry at each other…we were both just stressed with work. She called me later that night to apologize.”

“Are you sure you didn’t have any fights after that?” asked the detective.

“I’m sure,” said Will.

There was an awkward silence. And then, “Will, why don’t you come down to the station with us?”

“Am I under arrest? I didn’t kill her! I swear!”

“No, we just think that you can maybe help us out a little more.”

Will started crying, but he knew he had no choice. My parents both had smug looks on their faces. Isabel was dead to the world.

“We’re going now,” said the detective. “I’ll be back tomorrow for further questions.”

Father nodded. After they left, we sat there, not saying anything.