Archer and Reid were still hunkered down in the café, seemingly unfazed by the stir they'd just caused. Yeah, it was deliberate, alright. Their calculated appearance at Penelope's book signing had rattled her, no doubt. Penelope's usually bubbly demeanor had flatlined faster than a can of soda left open overnight. With a croaky, trembling voice, she cut the event short, saying she wasn't feeling well. Classic move when you need a quick out.
Any other time, they might've felt a tinge of guilt for throwing a wrench into her day, but let's be real—this was business, not a social call. They exchanged knowing glances, each reading the silent language that said, "Stage One: Complete."
And sure as hell, here comes Penelope's assistant, marching toward them with purpose, her high-pitched voice slicing through their thoughts like a chainsaw through butter. "Ms. Penelope would like to see you now," she squeaked, in a tone that was half snob, half scared. Her eyes darted between Archer's brooding face and Reid's impassive one, probably wondering what kind of storm they'd just walked into. Both men stood up, their seats scraping softly against the floor, drowning in the gentle hubbub of the café.
The two followed her through a maze of bookshelves and past an eclectic jumble of cozy armchairs and tables cluttered with half-empty lattes and laptops. They were finally led to a secluded corner where Penelope sat, her face as pale as a ghost who'd just seen another ghost. She was clearly shaken, clutching Michelle's book to her chest like some kind of literary shield.
"Hi Ms. Penelope." Reid inquired, not bothering to soften the edges of his voice. It was a stark contrast to the moment before, when his eyes had held a soft focus, absorbing the titles of the books they'd passed. Now those eyes were laser-sharp, all business.
"Do drop the formalities." Penelope replied.
Reid nodded before pulling out the chair opposite to hers and sat down, "I am Reid Greenfield and this is my friend, Archer. We are investigating the Michelle's death."
Penelope chuckled nervously, her eyes flitting about as if looking for an escape route, "didn't the police conclude that it was a suicide?" But even her voice seemed to betray her, the pitch a little too high, the laugh a little too forced. "Why would you be investigating it if it's suicide?"
Archer cut in, his voice colder than a Siberian winter, "it's murder."
For a moment, something like recognition flickered in her eyes, then masked itself behind a veil of feigned ignorance. "Murder?"
Reid tossed Michelle's book onto the table between them. It landed with a thud, its presence heavier than its weight, charged with unsaid implications. "You looked like you'd seen a ghost when you laid eyes on this. Explain."
"I didn't know she wrote this book."
"Aren't you guys friends?" Reid pressed.
Penelope stared at the book as though it was an artifact from another dimension. Then she took a deep breath and seemed to collapse inward, like a building imploding on itself. "Fine," she said, her voice deflated. "Yes, I knew Michelle. We were friends."
Penelope looked up from the worn pages of Michelle's book that she clutched like a sacred relic. Seated regally in her chair, which might have been designed for appearance rather than comfort, she seemed to exude an aura of poise, despite her visible discomfort. However, beneath the surface-level calm, there was a perceptible tempest of emotion; a look of someone who's come to grips with their own complicities.
"Ah, Michelle and I," she began, her voice laced with an indescribable texture—something between the dulcet tones of a sonnet and the crispness of a well-edited manuscript. "Our story unfolds in the hallways of Simple Publishing. Picture it as a modern 'Pride and Prejudice,' but with less bonnets and more book deals."
Archer and Reid leaned in, curious about how all these would go.
"My first book, 'Eclipsed Hearts,' had just received the kind of accolades writers dream of. I became, much to my own surprise, a luminary in a sky I had only recently learned to navigate. Michelle was an early admirer—our initial rendezvous occurred in the office kitchenette over poorly brewed coffee and shared literary tastes. We became immediate comrades in arms."
She paused, like a good writer always does, to let the emotional weight of her words settle in the room. "But life," she continued, "with its uncanny knack for plot twists, introduced Regen Legend into my narrative."
Here, her eyes misted over. Reid noticed it, a subtle softening around the corners, the light dimming ever so slightly. Archer's ever-watchful eyes narrowed further; nothing escaped his gaze.
"Regen was my Romeo, my Mr. Darcy, my Heathcliff—all rolled into one enigmatic figure. Our connection was palpable, the chemistry, undeniable. Rapid, exothermic, dazzling, but also dangerous. The fervor between us was such that we soon transitioned from boardroom negotiations to a matrimonial alliance.
"He was a client and Michelle became wary. She warned me about him. But of course, I ignored her."
She took a deep breath, steadying herself, her grip around Michelle's book tightening. "I thought she was trying to snatch away what was mine. Regen and I got married and in my whirlwind romance, Michelle became the forgotten footnote, a vestigial sentiment. And it wasn't so much a drifting apart as it was a tearing asunder. Imagine splitting an atom; the energy released is monumental, but so is the destruction it leaves in its wake."
She sighed, a sound that seemed to reverberate with centuries of wisdom and remorse. "And thus, our fellowship was sundered. I ascended into a fairytale, while Michelle descended into her own personal maelstrom. I've often wondered, in the stillness of midnight or the emptiness of a blank page, what would have happened if I had penned our story differently.
"But you would have known all these already, don't you?" Penelope asked.
Reid nodded, smiling a little, "of course. You said the same thing to the police."
Penelope sighed, "I did not meet Michelle at all."
Archer shuffled a little and was looking through the books on the bookshelf behind Penelope. Both Reid and Penelope glanced at him before returning their gazes at each other.
"Right," Reid said after a few moments of silence, "do you know a person called Carson?"
Penelope looked confused and she shook her head, "should I know him?"
Reid let out a small smile, "not really."
Archer, finally breaking his studied silence, said, "Seems like you earned your crown, but at what cost?"
The look that Penelope gave Archer was profound—like a heavy mixtape of realization and sorrow all packed into one single, soul-crushing gaze. "Indeed," she whispered, the single word barely escaping her lips, as if it cost her a whole lot to admit it.
Just then, the door swung open with a thud. It was Penelope's assistant, a whirlwind of nervous energy and misplaced urgency, barging into the room like a plot twist nobody asked for. "Sorry, gentlemen, but we really have to get going. Penelope has another engagement."
Reid and Archer exchanged glances. They both sensed the urgency was fabricated, another layer of complexity to an already convoluted story. But they didn't press it, not then.
"Would you mind if we keep in touch?" Reid asked, pulling out his communicator.
Penelope looked at him and then at Archer, her eyes shifting between them like she was sizing up whether she could trust them with a paragraph or two from her own backstory. Finally, she nodded and waved her own device at Reid's. A soft chime indicated the contact information had been transferred.
No sooner had this been done than Penelope's phone buzzed like an anxious hummingbird. She looked at the screen and her whole demeanor shifted. It was like watching a well-practiced actress switch roles in a matter of milliseconds. "Yes, darling," she cooed into the device, "I'll be right down."
Archer and Reid shuffled toward the exit, their footsteps echoing in the awkward silence that filled the room. As they stepped out of the building, they caught sight of a man standing beside a sleek, black car—a figure of polish and poise that could only be Penelope's husband, the elusive Regen Legend.
"She's hiding something," Archer murmured, his eyes narrowed as he watched Regen from a distance.
Reid looked at Archer, his eyes dissecting the scene as if it were a psychological case study on deception and denial. "Oh, she's definitely hiding something," he agreed.
Archer considered this, his mind dissecting every nuance of the meeting they'd just had with Penelope. "When she mentioned how she got famous, you catch how she said it? It was like she was reading from a marketing script, not reliving an emotional journey. That doesn't square with the Penelope who couldn't even maintain eye contact when talking about Michelle."
"Exactly," Reid nodded. "And did you notice how she slightly recoiled when I reached out with my communicator? hat was a textbook display of incongruent emotional response. Her eyes said yes, but her body language screamed reluctance. It's like she was trapped between her instinct to reveal and her compulsion to conceal. She was already withdrawing from the conversation, physically distancing herself before the emotional distance had even set in. Classic defense mechanism. Freud called it 'avoidance,' where a person moves away from emotional or psychological triggers."
Archer shook his head. "Avoidance? Feels more like deflection to me. Like she was doing her best to control the narrative, make sure we only see what she wants us to see. That's a whole lot more active than just avoiding something."
Reid chuckled. "Well, look at you getting all psychological. Freud or Jung?"
"Stephen King, actually," Archer shot back with a wry smile. "Horror authors know a lot about the human psyche. They have to; it's their bread and butter."
"And let's not forget her vocal inflection when she answered her husband's call. Up until then, she was talking like she was narrating a poignant but dark novel. When that call came through, it's like she switched genres from drama to fairy tale in a heartbeat," Reid continued, "That kind of discrepancy between verbal and nonverbal communication? Man, that's a huge red flag in psychology. It indicates internal conflict, possibly an emotional or cognitive dissonance, a tension between what she feels and what she wants to or is supposed to feel. If I were a betting man, I'd say she's struggling with something she wants to say but can't or won't—maybe out of fear, or maybe something more complicated."
"And what about Regen? Where does he fit into all this?" Archer asked, still troubled by how easily Penelope seemed to switch emotional gears once her husband had called. "You think he knows?"
Reid paused, visibly sifting through his mental library of psychological theories and life experiences. "That's hard to say. Emotional dynamics in relationships can be extremely complicated. What one person sees as a protective shield, another might see as an oppressive wall. Penelope's dramatic shift in tone when speaking to him could be a conditioned response, perhaps a coping mechanism for something we're not privy to. But it's certainly another emotional dissonance, another unresolved chord in this unsettling symphony."
Archer grinned, an expression that carried a bit of mischief but also a lot of respect for his partner's psychological insight. "Well, Freud, looks like we have another layer to peel back in this ever-unfolding onion of a mystery."
"Yeah," Reid chuckled. "And I've got a feeling this layer is gonna make us cry."
Archer's eyes twinkled with newfound determination. "Well, I say it's about time someone conducts this mess into a finale."
Reid couldn't help but laugh. "You ready to pick up the baton?"
"You know it. I've always fancied myself more of a composer than a performer anyway," Archer said, exuding a confidence that could either be interpreted as arrogance or as an indomitable will to forge ahead, damn the complexities.