Death's Fated Love

Even though her knees hurt on the hard floor, she had to stay down there and continue stroking the knob until it was done. The smell of mint swims around her as the muscles in her arm scream from the overwork, but she knew she was almost done.

She moves down from the doorknob and continues to wipe down the front until she reaches the bottom and the water and mint soaked rag swipe the porch. Finally done with cleaning her front door, she sits back on her heels and lets her sore arm rest on her lap. 

It was the first Friday of the month and she woke up late and even though she rushed to shower and dress, she couldn't rush in recharging her house. She only had a few more steps to do when her phone chimes; another text, the fifth in the last minute. No doubt her boss asking why she was so late to work. 

She puts away the rag and small bowl of water away before grabbing another bowl of salt and basil, quickly sprinkling it on her doorstep. She places witches' bells on the doorknob, grabs her things and walks out of her house, locking up behind her and rushing out.

The early November air in Thibodaux still felt like it was August, and the skeleton trees didn't provide shade as she sweated her way down the sidewalk. She only lives a few blocks away from her job, but already she can feel the sweat sliding down the middle of her back. 

She picks up her pace as another text chimes in her phone, but soon she was more distracted by the crowd blocking the path and the door to the antique shop. It was a college town with The University of Thibodaux just a couple major streets over, so seeing a lot of young adults wasn't unusual. But having this many young people surrounding her job, an antique shop that didn't sell any college related things was new, and it was hard to miss the two cop cars with their silent sirens parked on the street behind the crowd. 

She slowly pushes her way into the crowd of onlookers and into the shop, which is completely empty of shoppers, but her boss, two plain-clothes detectives and uniform officers look back at her. 

She opens her mouth to say something as they look at her expectantly, but the short man, standing in front of the detectives, hands moves faster as he signs and says, "You're late."

She nods. Signing "sorry," with her hands. "I was doing some last-minute cleaning."

The two detectives, an older male and a female, watch as they talk and sign to each other.

The shorter man, the owner of the antique store, who stood even shorter than the female detective and her, turned to the two officers and smiled. "This is my daughter, and late employee, Selene." They watch as he signs along with his words.

"Daughter?" The male detective says loudly. "You two don't look alike."

Selene knew exactly what he was talking about. She was tall for a female at 5 '10, and had ebony skin, whereas her father—adopted father—was short, and unbelievably pale with platinum blond hair and eyebrows so light they almost weren't there.

"Of course we do." Her father points to his ears. "Our ears look just alike."

"Mr. Carrington."

He just holds up his hands as an apology.

The Male detective turns to Selene and says loudly. "Last minute cleaning?"

His partner quickly puts the notebook and pen she was holding underneath her arm as she quickly signs what her partner says, surprising Selene, Carrington and her partner.

"Yes," Selene says and signs. "Mopping the floor, wiping down the front door, things like that. But sir, you don't have to shout. I am only deaf on my right side. I can still hear. And your partner is signing perfectly."

"... sorry."

"You lost your spare hearing aid?" Carrington asks her, crossing his arms. 

"How'd you know?" She asks, looking down at her father.

"Because your spare is in the back room, which means you also lost that really expensive one, right?"

"—anyway! Were we robbed of something valuable or something?" Selene asks, looking around at the small antique shop. 

"Why do you think you were robbed?" This time, the detective spoke at a normal level and his partner still signed for them.

"Well, there's police cars outside with silent signals on, with two uniforms here and plain clothes officers—"

"Detectives."

"Detectives. Sorry. What else could have happened?"

Carrington breathlessly chuckles. "Not robbed. Missing Persons."

"Missing person? With the cop lights going on for the crowd? Did they find a body or something? Is this a crime scene?"

"Nope," Carrington shakes his head. "No corpses. No crime scene. Just asking about a missing person."

"And yet they have the attention seeking lights on? Two uniforms and detectives? Must be white to want to bring this many eyes on it."

Before the detectives can say anything, Carrington gives off a "ding" to say she's right.

"Officer Jenkins, go cut the lights," the male detective shouts out to the store.

After they all watch the two officers go outside, everyone turns their eyes back to the detective. 

The Detective hands her a picture, and she takes it to look at the white man who is smiling. He's wearing large framed glasses, with his white shirt buttoned all the way to his bulging neck.

Selene looks at the picture, trying to remember anything, but nothing comes to mind. "I haven't seen him before, so he's not a regular, though we don't get many regulars. Does he usually deal with antiques?"

"Um… no," the female detective signs and says. 

Her partner looks at her sternly before looking back at Selene. "Our missing person kept a detailed journal of his day-to-day affairs, and on the last page we found the name of this shop."

"What, like making an appointment? But we don't make appointments… and he wasn't into antiques? Why would he have our name?" Selene asks.

"Cartoons, comics." The Detective says.

"They call it manga," the female officer corrects him. 

Before her partner could give her another look, Carrington breaks in. "Ah, that makes sense."

Selene holds her hands up. "I didn't do it this time."

Carrington looks at her, shakes his heads, and rolls his eyes. The detective, however, looks like he just caught his suspect.