Everything was neatly arranged.
Jodie stood akimbo and looked around the room. She was in Russell's poorly lit bedroom, where she planned to start her search. A shelf to her right had books on the history of werewolves, all of the volumes arranged alphabetically, their spines shining brightly. His clothes were stored in drawers, nicely folded. Made with military precision, the bed was a stark white expanse with squared edges.
What am I looking for? She thought. A confession? A hidden journal? A secret message? Something, anything, that might link Russell to the murder if he's guilty. Anything out of the ordinary.
She began to search.
Fingers trembling, Jodie rifled through his personal belongings. Documents, old pictures, journals—her eyes scanned each item, searching for hidden meanings, but she came up with nothing concrete. Russell was clear for the most part.
Her anxiety grew.
