The Forum by Marie Reyes (short books for teens .txt) 📕

Quicky_Mart: Cool. I'm in Pine Ridge, not far from Vancouver.

Pipes1983: I see you lot have been busy.

Quicky_Mart: Pipes, hey. Good to hear from you.

Martin rushed to the kitchen to pour himself a Scotch. He had never really liked it much, but that oaky depth reminded him of his dad, and when he had let him try some for the first time, and he screwed his face up in disgust. This was a fine-aged Scotch, and it would have been a shame to waste it.

He pulled a thick glass tumbler from the dishwasher and opened the fridge to find out he was out of ice. Oh well. He sighed and filled the glass up a quarter of the way before deciding to bring the bottle with him. Placing the bottle on the table, he glanced at the screen.

Pipes1983: I've not had any luck trying to find the tattoo artist. I just don't think I'm very good at this kind of thing. I can never guess who the killer is when I watch thrillers, even when people say it's really obvious.

Quicky_Mart: DW. With these kind of things, most of the time, it's just dumb luck.

Shortstacks: I have loads of chores to catch up with. Hopefully speak soon?

Quicky_Mart: Sure. I'd like that. I have a bottle of Scotch with my name on it.

Pipes1983: That sounds nice.

Quicky_Mart: You should pour yourself a drink. May make it less of a chore.

Pipes1983: Can't. Teetotal.

Quicky_Mart: Oh, sorry.

So, he was back to being alone. It was just him and Google Maps now. He started from the location of the graffiti that he had been sent, a sketchy part of town. Across the road, was an empty lot surrounded by chain link fencing, and he could see a group of people congregating under a bridge.

An industrial sized dumpster stood below the graffiti and trash that hadn't quite made its way inside, surrounded it. He clicked further down the road, but his eyes were already starting to blur. The space around him lost clarity, and he felt like there was a hazy shroud between him and the real world, making everything a struggle. It was alright when he was safe at home, but when he would have this feeling at work, it was so hard to focus. He was just floating, separate from his numb body, and the world around him whizzed past at a million miles an hour, while he sat in a foggy daze. His body and brain worked in slow motion, desperately trying to keep up. He stared into space, letting his mind wander, until a new message popped up.

K-meister: Anyone still here? I'm sorry about the other day. Everything was still so fresh. I actually appreciate your help. The police won't tell me anything. I'm worried they're not doing enough to find my dad.

Quicky_Mart: Hi there. Happy to help. If there is anything you need, I mean anything. Please let me know.

K-meister: Thank you. I feel like I could use all the help I can get. You have any leads?

Quicky_Mart: We've mainly been concentrating on the new victim. We're getting there. It would be helpful to know if anyone had a grudge against your father. There seems to be a personal element there.

K-meister: I doubt it. My dad doesn't have many friends. He's not been seeing anyone. He got on okay with his work colleagues, I think.

Quicky_Mart: Do you recognize the second victim at all? I have a screenshot, so you don't have to watch the video.

K-meister: I saw her on a previous post. Don't recognize her.

Quicky_Mart: Well, if you think of anything, let us know.

K-meister: I shouldn't really be telling you this. The police didn't want me sharing details of the case, but on the wall, when I found him, someone had written, you deserved it. But he didn't. Whatever they thought he'd done. He wouldn't hurt a fly. I don't know why someone would write something like that.

Quicky_Mart: It must be someone he knew then, surely. You can't think of anyone with a grudge, deserved or not?

K-meister: I swear to god. I have no idea. That's why it's so weird. He pretty much keeps to himself.

Chapter Eight

SEATTLE

Mornings were the worst. Piper couldn't remember a morning where she hadn't woken up feeling like crap. She lay in bed scrolling through her phone. One of her old classmates posted about their successful, self-made business. Someone else had just had their destination wedding in the Caribbean. Enough of the self-pity. It was time to force herself to have a shower.

She had already driven most of her friends away with her negativity. She wondered what they thought depression was in their heads. Being sad? A quirky character trait? She was sure they didn't think of the unsavory things. Not having the energy to brush your teeth or shower for a week, sometimes longer. The complete and utter self-hatred. She wondered, for a moment, what it might be like not to feel utter disdain when you look in a mirror, but she couldn't imagine it. Such a lofty goal was out of reach.

An email sat in her inbox, notifying her that someone commented on her post.

[email protected]     07:55

I did a tattoo just like that. It was ages ago now though. Would struggle to find the name of the customer. Wouldn't be able to share the name either.

Piper wondered if she should let the police know just in case this was something they wanted to look into. She doubted it. They would probably just think she was nuts. Maybe she was.

A support group leader once told her to stop surrounding herself with darkness: the depressing music she listened to, the graphic movies she would watch, and the nihilistic websites she would visit. Apparently, it wasn't healthy to surround yourself with groups of