Page 3 of Hellebore

“She was found in the woods, only two kilometers from here. She was…” The officer coughs, gathering herself. “…buried in a shallow grave. A hunting dog found her.”

Her eyes flash through a series of colours – the gaudy festive bulbs illuminating her face.

Red.

Green.

Blue.

Yellow.

“So close?” I ask, words thick in my throat.

My fingers twist in my lap, restless and frantic, bones creaking as I try to steady my heart. I don’t understand. I can’t recall the last time Francesca and I spoke. I can’t remember the exact moment when everything fell apart. Why can’t I remember?

My sister creeps into the room with soft footfall, collapsing the unspooling silence. My mother stiffens again, a wraith of a woman, a shadow of a human. The room hushes for another moment before Isabel gets the hint and leaves, head bowed, shoulders sunken.

“In the woods? So close to where she went missing?” my mother questions, reigniting the conversation.

“Yes.” The officer glances at my mother and nods before casting her eyes away again.

“How did she die?” I ask, ignoring my sister’s shadow lingering at the door.

“And she was murdered?” my mother cuts in, and I want to scream. She’s taken to ignoring me since the winter feast, since I returned home covered in dirt from the forest floor, my words lost, my throat aching as broken memories began to slip from my grasp.

I can only assume she believes she knows what happened. And that in her opinion, I’ve betrayed our faith. I wish I could argue that, but with the memories gone she may very well be right. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Yes,” the officer breathes, “Sh-she was strangled. There is evidence of deep tissue damage to her neck, and broken capillaries in her eyes – but we’re waiting on an autopsy to find out what happened.”

My mother sucks a sharp breath and I refrain from rolling my eyes. She never liked Francesca – she was too free spirited and difficult to mould into what she thinks women should be.

“Her mother is letting you do…”

“An autopsy?” my mother interrupts.

“Yes, an autopsy. She was legally an adult, it’s protocol.” There’s an edge to her voice, as though she carries the same disdain for the lifestyles of the families in the hills out here. My chest warms as I consider that.

“Oh,” I breathe, trying to steady my racing thoughts.

Mother nods tightly – jaw rigid and eyes narrowed. A fist clenches inside my chest as I watch the anger turn her cheeks red.

“But I need to ask you something about Francesca,” the officer continues, eyes drawing over my shoulder for a moment as she twists a pen between trembling fingers. Grief stricken, saddened by this conversation.

“Why?” my mother questions, pursing her lips. “Have you not already asked me everything?”

“There are new things to consider, with her body being discovered. Was Francesca into anything… strange?”

I watch them converse, eyes fixed on each other, the tension thickening as the conversation continues. Neither look at me, speak to me, acknowledge me – even though I was Francesca’s kin. Her best friend.

Her soulmate.

“Strange how?”

I watch my mother’s reaction. Whether she is going to tell the truth or bury it beneath her curated demeanor.

“Like, was she in a cult? Or a new religion?”

“No.” My mother shakes her head. “She was a lovely girl, a child of God, it’s such a shame she’s gone.” The crocodile tears begin as glistening droplets trickling into the crook of her nose. “Why?”