Vermilion Desire

by Celia Crown

  “It’s a shame that he has been accused of a horrible crime,” she murmurs.

  I peek at her through the corner of my eyes, searching the hidden message in her tone as she hums again. She’s a curvy woman with symmetrical features, almost close to celebrity measurements if she was interested in shallow fame.

  “Are you suggesting he didn’t do it?” I question, my finger scrolling down the page with the mouse.

  “I’m a woman of science,” she remarks in such calmness that it’s impossible to tell what she’s thinking about. “The evidence will direct me to the truth.”

  “And if the truth is not satisfactory?” I gauge her reaction briefly before I click on another link to read into his family history.

  His mother passed away from ovarian cancer, and his father has fallen ill to a family illness that isn’t disclosed to the public. It’s the doing of his lawyers and for the sake of patient’s privacy.

  That doesn’t stop the prying cameras of reporters from digging dirt to expose one of the most prominent families in the tri-state area.

  If I had to guess, the Berkshire family runs up to one of the most famous generations in the world. Every offspring has done something incredible, and I wonder if that has to do with genetics or their upbringing because they have everything at their disposal.

  “The truth is the truth. You cannot twist it to your satisfaction because it does not please you. That’s what sin is.”

  I smile, watching the happy family photo of the Berkshire family. It doesn’t please me because I want to have the family of the victim suffer, but because the Berkshire family had caused more needless stress to my Mr. Wolf than I would have liked in a case of murder.

  The criminal justice system is built for the rich. That is a fact proven over time, and through the outcomes of corruption, money can buy everything. I appreciate those who believe in justice and want to walk on the path of righteousness, but it’s a losing battle until someone makes an example out the Berkshire.

  It’s a warning to those who live with their noses turned up that they aren’t untouchable.

  Cal wants to be that someone who could change the police force. I have seen him fall deeper into a hole of self-destruction every time a case falls apart because rich people have money, and psychopaths are sadists.

  I’m afraid this is going to be the case that’s going to break Cal’s back and haunt him for the rest of his life.

  I want to help him. As a research student, I have little interest in the justice system. Nevertheless, research is the same across the board. Anything I can do to help Cal will lessen the burden that he carries despite pretending to be alright in front of me.

  “Where is your conscience?” I mock lightly.

  She slaps my back with a huff; the jolt forces me to click on an advertisement. If I get a virus, then it’s the research facility’s problem to solve it. Accidents happen, and the best I can do is nothing since I wouldn’t know if it contains any virus at all.

  “Where are your morals?” she asks back with sass lacing in her voice.

  Beth Junior comes in the lab with an eyebrow raised to her pale hairline; she glances swiftly to the screen of the computer before the realization hits her face.

  “I didn’t know you’re—”

  “Not interested,” I interrupt. “This is for research.”

  She shrugs, unaffected by the abrupt denial from me. “You’re not the only one that has a vested interest in him.”

  “Oh?” I tease, a grin appearing on my face as she sits in the other chair. “Don’t tell me you have a love interest in an accused murder?”

  She rolls her eyes, lifting up her nails to be inspected with bored eyes. “Beth Senior and I have an on-going bet to see if he dies.”

  “Where are your morals?” I throw the question back over my shoulder to Beth Senior.

  She flicks the back of my head and the hollow sound echoes in my ear. I bite back a wince, glaring at her, and Beth Senior cracks a smirk.

  “His family’s generations have been littered with illnesses. Many on the internet broke down his family tree and found that the Berkshire family has a long history of inbreeding. It’s a far-fetched concept since it hasn’t happened in over one hundred years.” Beth Junior drops her nails on the table, forming a smooth tempo to fill in the silence.

  “It’s a safe bet that he has something, too, but it could be dormant.” Beth Senior comments.

  I offer the other suggestion. “Or he could be hiding it.”

  Neither women reject that idea because, as researchers, we cannot set down our answers until it had been exhausted by other challenges to prove that it is wrong.

  “He’s a damn good actor then.” Beth Junior claps her hand in amazement. “Any illness comes with pain, and I doubt no one in his life has not seen anything.”

  “Timing is everything,” I mention the other possibility. “He’s either really lucky or he times out things.”

  Both Beth’s look at each other for a moment, eyebrows knotting and lips pursing. “Implausible. Pain is not predictable.”

  They’re right. Braxton Berkshire has had many appearances in public, and not once did a sign of him being ill has been caught. I could be wrong about him having an illness because his family had a long history of them, and maybe he is the lucky one that didn’t spark any hereditary illness out of dormancy.

  I would never jinx an illness on anyone. I don’t know Braxton personally, and given his public image, he is well-loved by everyone, and people believe his side of the story for the crime.

  “He said his car was stolen.” The scrolling of the mouse drags into my ears, blocking out the bickering of the two women in the lab with me.

  Anyone who can steal a Berkshire’s car with a driver and two bodyguards with him at all times is not humanly possible. Unless it is a team of professionals that knows the secret behind actively doing crime and making their victims lose their memories of how their car got stolen, then it’s not probable.

  The media had gotten a hand on the statement about his carjacking experience, and everyone in the car claimed that they don’t remember anything. They won’t let go of the fact that there were at least two carjackers.

  It’s so obvious that it’s a false statement, but the police had no other corroborating evidence to throw that statement away from a victim of a carjacking.

  Just moments after the media start finding flaws in Braxton’s stories, he came out with a tear-jerking recount of the event that caused him to have post-traumatic stress disorder.

  That was the first time I have seen someone lie with so much nonsense, and people choose to believe him. I guess this is what happens when people want to believe that their beloved pianist could do no wrong and the police just want to create trouble for an honest family.

  Blind loyalty. The fan base of any celebrity reminds me of a cult; their followers would do anything for them, and it makes them easy to manipulate.

  “Ah!” the recent intern’s voice coos. “My prince!”

  I get startled when intern Tanya barges into the lab with hearts practically spilling from her eyes as she presses her glossy lips to the flat computer screen. I narrow my eyes and shudders in disgust. Beth Senior snaps her teeth when she sees the equipment that she is in charge of being defiled by a girl with an unhealthy obsession with Braxton.

  “Tanya! This is inappropriate!” Beth Senior snaps, anger rising in her voice. “Explain yourself!”

  The stupor on Tanya’s face changes from love-struck girl to frightened intern. “I-I’m sorry! I-it’s just that—I… the false arrest made him scared, and I wanted to comfort him!”

  Beth Senior is not having it with Tanya and her ridiculous behavior. Beth Junior and I sit back and watch the older woman reprimand the young girl who has her attention split between looking at the screen and paying attention to the lesson Beth Senior is giving her.

  We have known that Tanya has a weird fan fascination with Braxton, just as do
many other young girls who look up to him and think that they are going to be his future wife when he inherits the family fortune when his father passes.

  It’s vile, but that’s how rich people inherit their money.

  “We will discuss this in my office!” Beth Senior’s heels snap on the ground, yanking the younger woman through the sheer force of fear.

  The lab becomes silent, and I turn to the younger Beth. She shrugs her shoulders, supporting her chin in her hand as she leans on the table. Her eyes occasionally sparing Braxton Berkshire’s picture an uninterested glance, she mentions something interesting.

  “Prodigies are on a different level than your average Joe.”

  I click out of my research and logout from my access before turning my attention fully to her. We’re the only ones here now, and I’m just waiting for Mr. Wolf to come to pick me up just as I have promised him that I would do.

  “Is he now?” I cock my head, waiting for her to elaborate on her thoughts.

  “A music genius is what everyone calls him. A lot of professionals think his right-side brain dominates the left.”

  I nod with her findings. “An anomaly can be found in his brain if he has a scan.”

  If that is true, then it is possible for him to make up a lot of details in the crime that he committed. I trust Mr. Wolf and Cal’s judgment. If they say that he’s guilty, then he is guilty in my eyes.

  This goes against everything I have been taught as a researcher. I am to never find my conclusions by researching information that favors the outcome that I want.

  Conflict rages inside of me as the notification on my phone tells me Mr. Wolf is outside of the building.

  The sense of anxiety erases from me, and I take a stand away from the chair while Beth Junior stretches her arms.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says as she waves me goodbye.

  I leave her in the lab to do whatever work she still has while I quickly leave through a series of doors. Sometimes I curse these long security checks, but the wait is worth it when Mr. Wolf stands at the entrance.

  I break into a run and jump into his arms; the smell of him calms me and pushes me in a haze of content.

  “Hey!” I greet through the cricking night. “I missed you!”

  Mr. Wolf chuckles, ruffling my red hair, and steers me to his car. “I missed you too. How was your day?”

  “It was fine until just a couple of minutes ago,” I say with a laugh as I open the car door.

  He waits until I get in to fit his massive body into the driver’s seat. Mr. Wolf makes the car purr and vibrates as he twists the key into the ignition; the jolting sends quivers into my heart as I peer at him.

  It’s been hours since I had seen him and seeing him in person beats talking to him over text messages and one phone call when I was on my lunch break. While he works in a place where every minute passes with a new crime and new leads, sometimes we can’t talk until we’re exhausted at home.

  We once had no contact for a week because a case he and Cal received was just too overwhelmingly important. People above them wanted the case closed as quickly and as quietly as possible when a prostitute was found in the hotel room of a senator.

  One can only imagine the backlash from the news, but it still got out that the senator had a habit of meeting call girls. Everyone in the police station had been severely reprimanded for their carelessness.

  Someone’s big mouth had gotten everyone in trouble, and no one knows who it is. And I don’t think they’ll ever figure it out because news that big can’t be contained.

  I have no remorse for the backlash the senator received. He was forced to step down from his powerful position.

  He dug that political assassination grave himself. No one can help him turn that around. In the public’s opinion, he’s a lowlife that took advantage of the system that he swore to make better.

  Prostitution is illegal, and everyone knows that.

  “What happened?” Mr. Wolf asks, interested and patient as he waits for me.

  I smile and shake my head. “There’s this intern; she actually kissed the screen of a computer in our lab.”

  He scoffs. “Why?”

  “She saw Braxton Berkshire.” I keep an eye on his reaction, and it’s immediate as his face hardens with a scowl, the streetlights flashing at the shadows of the anger in his eyes.

  “Why were you looking at him?” he questions, and it’s not the nicest way to ask a question.

  I take no offense. He’s angry, and he’s trying to control his emotions. If he truly answers, he can easily break my phone with one swipe of his hand. I don’t want to poke the irritated bear, but I’m somewhat interested in the case that he’s working on.

  I have no clue where this curiosity came from, but it’s here now, and it has no intention of leaving until I can find the truth myself.

  “Why do you think I looked him up?” I inquire back. I’m not afraid to stand up to Mr. Wolf even though he looks utterly terrifying with that icy glare.

  He clenches his jaw, and it ticked strongly. The veins on his arms bulge from how hard he’s gripping the steering wheel.

  Mr. Wolf finds something in him to anchor down the wrath with a pinched expression. He breathes, chest rising and lowering to mimic a countdown in my head. It stops at seven, an odd number for him to realize, and I don’t think too much into it.

  Mr. Wolf doesn’t follow the norm.

  “I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t mean to accuse you of anything.”

  His sincere apology and that kicked puppy look are adorable, but I was never mad at him. He doesn’t need to apologize for being angry as he has the right to be angry because Berkshire’s crime had left the victim’s family in a world of shambles.

  They are still in the grieving stage, so Cal and Mr. Wolf are angry for them.

  “It’s fine, Mr. Wolf. I was just curious if you must know,” I clarify, and just as his body relaxes, it tenses again.

  “Why are you curious?” he asks as if it’s not the biggest criminal case right now.

  The crime is still new, and all the wounds are raw. With protests from civilians accusing the police of protecting a murderer to them demanding Berkshire to pay for what he did to that poor woman, the tension in the city is up in flames.

  “He’s an interesting character,” I murmur, fishing out my phone to check the time. Mr. Wolf never fixes his car’s clock because he says that he has an accurate way to tell the time.

  I had jokingly asked if he uses a sundial, and he didn’t answer. To this day, it remains a mystery.

  “He isn’t,” he grumbles.

  I press my lips together. Is that a hint of jealousy? Mr. Wolf is one hundred percent better than that rich pianist. The big bad wolf in stories causes chaos and hurts people, but Mr. Wolf helps anyone who calls out to him, and he will put his life on the line for those he loves.

  Braxton Berkshire is a coward that hides behind the façade of perfection made with refined hands of professionals that shape his public appearance.

  He proudly claims that he donates to charity and helps out those who are in need, but not one media source can find any evidence to support that he is the one who did all the good deeds that he claimed he did.

  “Something about him stands out to me.” I tap my lips as I recall the information I have briefly looked up.

  A subtle growl breaks the quiet car; he tries to suppress it before it’s too late. “I thought only rare diseases fascinate you.”

  “I wouldn’t say Berkshire fascinates me,” I correct. “I can’t put my finger on it, but he looks funny to me. A tickle in my funny bone and I can’t scratch it until I know more.”

  A big hand warmly closes around mine on my lap, his thick fingers rubbing my smaller ones in a comforting gesture that has me smiling. I love his hands. They’re big and protective when he touches me as if he’s brushing off the evil that wants to cling onto me.

  “You’re an odd girl,” he notes with a chuckle. �
��I don’t want you to go near that case, baby. You’ll get hurt. And we don’t know how far Berkshire’s influence goes.”

  “Since the case is stressing you out lately,” I say as a strong gust of wind falls through the open windows. “I’m going to make you breakfast.”

  Talking about the Berkshire family upsets him, and I don’t want the time for him to unwind to have anything to do with work. I hate seeing him self-destruct and have tunnel vision, but his motivation needs to stay burning to get the smug pianist that still goes on talk shows to claim his innocence.

  “I promise it’ll be better than Uncle Cal’s microwaved eggs.”

  Mr. Wolf groans weakly as if he had remembered something unpleasant. “That animal.”

  I merely giggle and let the silence follow us home for the night.

  Chapter Four

  Wolf

  “Oh, god, I am too full.”

  I drag my eyes from the television to the girl lying on her side, head on my lap, and struggling to digest the amount of food she had eaten just ten minutes ago. Not even washing the dishes helped the digestion problem, and it’s entirely her fault for making too much since she was used to making a bigger portion to leave for Cal if he ever gets hungry throughout the day.

  Patting her head, I try to soothe her the best I could. My home doesn’t have digestive medicine to help her. A face filled with confusion, Scarletta asks, “Don’t you have work?”

  “It’s my off day,” I simply reply, mesmerized by the silkiness of her gorgeous hair. The redness is pure, a brighter red than what I have seen before, while her amber eyes blink to absorb what I had just said.

  I know what I said was weird. I don’t take personal days or vacations. I just leave them stacked and keep piling up. It’s useless to me because every moment I let myself relax means that all of the open cases fade more into the background.

  “Lazy day?” she suggests.