Avery Jones, the journalist
Olivia
“This here, ladies and gentlemen, is the house Rebecca Wright spent the past 50 years!” A voice boasted. Cameras went off like dynamites. Olivia felt the boat slowly nudge to a stop on the bank. Her heart was pounding, but her hands were steady as she stood up. She pulled at her pencil skirt, and brushed over her white shirt. For one last time, she looked down at her ID. A blonde woman with blue eyes looked back at her. Avery Jones was indeed gorgeous. She dropped the card back to its place as it slung from her neck, and then turned around to the old man who had rowed her there. She got out a twenty pound note.
He stared at in his hand, his face echoing between shock and skepticism, but he didn’t question it, instead displaying a bright smile and a tip of the hat. “Well, thankyou miss, but I was only being polite!” Angelica couldn’t help but smile. Partly because she was glad to realize humanity’s good side yet again, and mostly because Rebecca having been wrong about people brought her satisfaction- followed by guilt.
She turned to the lakehouse. A giant monument the crowd was now going crazy over stood where her home had been. It still looked the same, but less melancholy than when she had left it, in blindsight atleast. A large wall blocked off the right side of the house that faced the lake and the village beyond once the forest ended; the other side was a face to the rest of the forest. Its white walls, and cobblestone rooftop held above the terrace were nostalgic, but so much brighter than they had ever seemed in the past twenty one years. The sight erupted shivers through her. This was no longer Rebecca Wright’s home. It was a site being investigated for Rebecca’s suicide, possibly murder. Olivia scuttled onwards towards the oak door.
Was it normal for journalists to be late? Probably not, not when they were dying to know more about absolutely anything- especially this case. But it couldn’t possibly be her fault if she’d vomited out of her taxi from the train station to this village.
The house smelled of coffee and cologne. It was a new feeling. A nice kind of new. Olivia stared at the staircase leading up to the first floor infront of her. She crossed the welcome mat and slowly paced a few steps on the checkered beige and brown carpet. To her left was the living room, and the long dining table in the corner. Her right held the kitchen, the bin piled with styrofoam cups. She grimaced, that was not how she’d left it.
“As you all know, Rebecca owned the lake. It was at its shore that we found her bleeding body.” A voice came, slightly high pitched as it loudened. It coughed, and she turned back to the door to see a tall man standing outside, facing a crowd of people with cameras and notepads, following him like a herd. He turned to catch a glimpse of her, fake coughing this time in what sounded like dismay.
“As you all know, Rebecca owned the lake. It was at its shore that we found her bleeding body.” A voice came, slightly high pitched as it loudened. It coughed, and she turned back to the door to see a tall man standing outside, facing a crowd of people with cameras and notepads, following him like a herd. He turned to catch a glimpse of her, fake coughing this time in what sounded like dismay.
“You’re late.” Someone whispered spitefully to her, just before a plastic cup of coffee fit into her hand. “Pathetic,” The same voice echoed right after in her head. A chubby boy with blonde hair and gold rimmed glasses fitted around his large brown irises glared at her, before walking towards the door, his dark coat flowing behind him. She took a sip of the coffee- bitter like the man who’d given it to her- he had a reputation for being that way too. Asher Jackson’s cold assistant, Liam Jester, who had more than once yelled his head off at people for bothering their investigations. Olivia gagged, coffee was off of the list of things she’d wanted to try.
She followed Liam out of the house, stopping as she joined the crowd. Getting her notepad out of her bag, she clicked her pen. Olivia had opened the first blank page when the man the journalists were listening to said: “And that concludes the tour, with every detail I know about the case in open, to all of you.” Cameras flashed in his face, lighting it up and slightly blinding her.
“Why are no journalists or news reporters allowed on site for this case?” A reporter asked, his microphone pointed at the man of the tour. She looked up at him, just as his grey eyes found her, staring down at her with some disappointment. “They are allowed, just one though. Avery Jones. A freelancing journalist, new on the field, and one I hope can,” He cleared his throat, gesturing towards her. “Repair my relationship with the press with her lack of experience in brutal prying.”
Heads turned, human and camera, and soon, she was the one with bright lights going all over her face. “Where can we track your insights?” A woman asked her, the grey head of a microphone held at Olivia’s face like a knife. “Uh, its a long term project. You’ll see it after the case achieves, completion.” She said.
“Who do you work for?” A man asked, pronouncing every word with emphasis, like he was conversing with a caveman. “No one.” Olivia replied, repeating the same tone to him. She pursed her lower lip, and nodded with folded arms. “I work alone.” She said, almost smugly.
Asher smirked, folding his arms as he observed her like she was a zoo animal. It discomforted her. She hadn’t expected her disguise to work when she had posted her profile online, and requested a place by his and Liam’s side to document the case to later be revealed to the public’s eye after Asher’s deference. Every single piece of information on that profile had been fake. It had been a last resort, second only to a final resort where she would sneak around to sabotage the case; but what’s peculiar is Asher had taken the bait. That horrible roiling feeling was back in her stomach. There was no way she had just tricked England’s greatest detective into believing Avery Jones was real, had she?