I didn’t intend to leave Max behind. I honestly didn’t. I just started walking off in a random direction, trying to decide what to do with the crumpled photo in my hand. But all too soon, I arrived at a door. Frowning, I got a sudden urge to open it, to head outside, to get some fresh air. Because who knew how long Max would be?
Maybe it wasn’t the smart thing to do – okay, it was absolutely not the smart thing to do, but I did it anyway. I opened the door and walked outside. I expected it to exit out onto the laneway. The same weird squashed laneway we’d used to enter the bar. That’s not where I ended up. Instead, I exited into a peaceful courtyard garden.
A frown plastered over my lips as, hand still on the door handle, I tilted my head back into the hallway. Never letting go of the door, terrified that if I did I would end up god knows where, I took a hesitant step into the courtyard. I tipped my head up and suddenly realized that despite the fact it was mid-morning, out here, it looked as if it were going on dusk. “What the hell?”
A sudden gust of wind caught the door, threatening to slam it closed. It would have, did I not suddenly drop the photo, catch the door with both hands, and use all my strength to keep it open. But, in doing so, the photo jumped out of my grip. Instantly, the wind caught it, and it blew it upwards in a powerful gust.
“Crap,” I screamed, trying to keep hold of the door as I reached for it. But the photo was blown far out of my reach. As the gust subsided, the photo came to a stop about two meters away.
I kept swearing to myself as I fruitlessly tried to reach for it while keeping a hand on the door handle. I wasn’t the world’s tallest woman, and there was absolutely no way I would be able to pluck that photo up unless I let go of the door and walked over to it. As that realization dawned on me, I swore. “Maybe you should just leave it,” I muttered to myself under my breath. Surely Sarah would have more photos of the victim.
Just as I determined that it would be better to turn away rather than let go of the door in the treacherous wind, a pang of guilt sailed through my gut. I had to remember I knew precious little about this world. For all I knew, maybe there was something unique and important about this photo that would help me track the victim’s killer. Maybe it was impregnated with magic, maybe Sarah had tried really hard to track it down. The more I thought about it, the glummer I became. Aside from that sudden and rather dramatic gust of wind, the courtyard now seemed relatively calm. There were several beautiful Japanese maples and a large flowering magnolia up one end, and I saw from the branches and leaves that the weather had calmed. There was barely even a breeze out now – not enough to slam the door closed.
… I could risk it, right?
Wrong. As soon as I took a step forward, as soon as I let go of the door handle, the door slammed closed. My suspicious mind told me that the second the door slammed closed, would be the second I would be unable to find my way back into that bar. Sure enough, as I ducked forward, as fear pulsed through my heart, I yanked the door open. And it led… to more of the courtyard. It was as if the door were nothing more than a curious ornament.
Crap, crap, crap. Max had told me not to go anywhere. So what do I do? Get stuck in a magical courtyard from god knows where.
Though the gust of wind had been strong enough to slam the door closed, fortunately it did nothing to the photo. So, heart sinking, I plodded over, plucked it up, and clutched it tightly in my hand. Unavoidably, I glanced down at it. Though I’d managed to avoid looking directly at the photo until now, I wasn’t that lucky this time. The wind had turned the photo around, and for the first time, I stared at the front. The woman. Maybe she was in her 40s, maybe she was in her late 30s. She was beautiful, with big black, crinkly hair and a big red, crinkly smile. Even though it was just a photo, it somehow exuded personality, and I got the distinct impression that if I ever met this woman, I’d really like her. But I would never meet her, would I? Because this was the photo of someone who’d been murdered. Brutally. Whose heart had been cut out from their still warm body.
I started to shake. It wasn’t just the chill dusk air. It was the fear and sorrow that blasted through me. I used to think I had a relatively tough personality. Though I would feel compassion, I’d be able to shift past it with reason. Now, despite the fact I’d never met this woman, despite the fact her death should be little more than a fact to me, I started to cry. Tears raced down my cheeks, dashing against my collar.
