AllFreeNovel
Share Us
CHAPTER FOUR
The picture of a young girl stares back at me from the television. She has light brown hair, hazel eyes, and a blinding smile.
“Linda Cooper was reported missing by her parents on Monday 23rd. Seventeen-year-old Linda was last seen heading out for her run Sunday morning.Police are asking for anyone who may have seen this girl or witnessed anyone who seemed out of place around Whithall River at roughly nine a.m. to please come forward.
“An inside source says: “The parents are completely devastated and beside themselves with grief. Linda is a bright young girl who is training for the August Charity Marathon in London to raise money for Leukaemia. They’re positive something has happened to their daughter. She’s never had problems at school or at home. What happened has come as a huge shock to them, and they are pleading with anyone who may know something to come forward.”
I can’t look away from the screen, even when they show a picture of her parents walking out of the police station, their eyes swollen and red. They go on to describe how they’ve been searching for her nonstop since Sunday afternoon.
My heart pummels to my throat as I watch it. The husband does his best to console his wife, but the grief and sorrow on his face is crippling.
When we applied for university, we checked to make sure the area was safe. We didn’t want to end up in a town where crime was at its highest, especially since we were moving here without our parents. Even though there is no place on Earth where someone isn’t doing something illegal, we didn’t want to be in the centre of a gang war.
A town an hour away has two gang rivals constantly at war, but other than that, Whithall seemed like your normal place. In fact, when we researched Whithall, there hadn’t been anything other than petty arrests for fighting or theft.
So we moved here, and since then, we’ve had a serial rapist, a murder, and now a missing girl. It just seems like a lot has happened for what was known as a relatively quiet town.
If my father sees this on the news, I’ll be expecting a phone call and demands to move back home.
The television draws my attention once again. The Cooper’s had gone to the police station to file a missing person’s report on Sunday night after they still hadn’t heard from her, but the police couldn’t do anything for twenty-four hours because she was classed as an adult. It’s now Wednesday; four days of the Cooper’s not knowing what happened to their daughter, and it must be killing them.
From what I’m hearing on the news, Linda Cooper isn’t someone who would go somewhere without telling her parents. She’s never been in trouble, not at school or with the police. She even has a few charities she helps raise money for. And according to her Facebook account, she was well liked. There wasn’t one person on there who was arguing and saying she just ran away.
The news reporter had her old high school headteacher give a statement, as well as some of her friends. They’ve also been showing Facebook posts from all her friends on the bottom of the screen and with the twitter caption, #FindLindaCooper.
The clock mounted on the wall catches my eye and I hiss out a breath. I’m going to be late for class if I don’t get a move on. I’d been so consumed with what was happening on the television and reading the kind words from her friends that I’d forgotten about my Historical Literature class.
I’ve been dreading this class since I returned to school. When I first applied, I thought the class would be a breeze, but I had been wrong. I’ve been struggling a little on the archaeology of Greece and the historical development of literature from the medieval period to the 17thcentury. Both are a requirement to pass my course.
It’s hard to enjoy the class when I’m struggling so much, and the only student study group is held on the nights I work. I asked a few people if they wanted to meet up on different days, but they declined.
With one last glance at the news playing on the television, showing a picture of Linda Cooper smiling, I grab my bags and keys, and rush out the door. It’s only when I’m half way to class that I realise I didn’t say goodbye to Rosie or let her know I’ll be going out to lunch with CJ, so won’t be back.
*** *** ***
I’m late.
I slow my run to a walk when I reach the door, and take a deep breath, preparing myself for all the stares that will come—like they always do when someone disrupts their class.
I quietly open the door, hoping I can sneak in unnoticed, and as I reach the back of the classroom, where my chair is located, I think I’ve gotten away with it.
“Nice of you to join us, Miss Davis.”
I inwardly groan, feeling my face heat as I pull out my chair and take a seat. My gaze turns to our teacher, Geoffrey Flint. “I’m sorry.”
He gives me a disapproving gaze before focusing back on the class. Quietly, I take out my notepad and pens and listen to what he is teaching. I try my hardest to follow but somewhere along the way my mind drifts back to the girl plastered all over the news.
She’s out there somewhere. She could be scared, alone, hurt. She could be happy and feeling guilty about scaring her parents and family. It is a mystery that only Linda Cooper can answer. That thought alone is horrible, because if something bad happens, only she will have the answers to give her parents the peace of mind they’ll need.
I guess it’s another reason why I’m so determined to write about Christie’s murder. Only she and the killer know what happened to her that night.
Her parents have pleaded and even offered a reward for any help that leads to an arrest of the person who killed her. They will do anything to know why their daughter was taken away from them so cruelly. I want to find them justice, but in order to do that, I need to get into the mind of the killer, and to do that, I need to figure outwhyChristie. Why did he kill her? Was it something she had done, said or saw? There’s a trillion and one ideas that come to mind, making me more determined than ever to find out.
I’m so lost in my own thoughts that I don’t notice Mr. Flint standing beside me. He kneels down next to me, and like clockwork, leans forward—too close for my liking—and rests his arm along the back of my chair.
“Is everything okay?”
I try to scoot away without it being too obvious. Mr. Flint has a way of making me feel uncomfortable. Whenever he comes to see me about something, he always gets far too close. My personal space is just that: personal.
