F
Yesterday, disguised as a tree, I met with F at the Dunsinane Café. F has been a long-time ally and confidante, and provided me with both valuable information and a plea to come back. But in this time of betrayal, I cannot trust anyone, not even her. Sorry, F, I know you are a big fan of this blog and are probably reading these words.
And these words.
And these words.
What fun, I bet you read them all! I was flattered to hear that you read my blog. I still cannot trust you, though.
I must thank you, however, for the vital information that you provided me. F brought to my attention that some time before Q's death, a rumour of a "Secret" had been circulating. As we are an organization of many secrets, I didn't think much of it at the time. However, F told me that the last she had heard, Q was the keeper of this "Secret".
So was her murder to keep the secret buried, or a failed attempt to discover it? I delved further into this mystery, sinking my teeth into the new evidence and also the turkey sandwich I bought at the café (I must admit the employees were baffled to be serving a tree). After my meeting with F and a brief car chase (well, the cops had a car, I was on a tricycle), I went to Q's apartment to look for clues. Though I knew that it probably contained valuable information, I hadn't been able to force myself to go before this lead led me there.
The apartment was small, and a tad dusty. The furnishings were minimal and the paisley curtains had been mangled from my clumsy break-in. I made a bee-line to the refrigerator. As everyone knows, there are always secrets in refrigerators. Why else would we open them and close them only to open them a moment later? There is something hidden in refrigerators that we are subconsciously searching for.
However, when I reached the fridge, I froze in my tracks. Upon it, there was a photo I recognized.
It was a photo of us.
After a solid ten minutes of weeping, I looked inside the fridge for more clues. I found nothing to indicate the nature of the secret that Q kept, nor to explain the bit of poetry she chose to write on our photo. If anything, I'm more sure than ever that the secret is the reason for Q's murder. But something feels wrong.
Not that that's much of a change.
Everything feels wrong nowadays. Gone are the carefree days like the one immortalized in that photo.
With nothing but gnawing anxiety, a heavy heart and a worn Polaroid, I left Q's apartment.
- A.M. Ham
