2020-04-12 - Enter The Madhouse

Alexander suggests to Isabella that they walk, rather than drive. It's not that long of a walk (compared to the walking that he does on a daily basis), and the almost everpresent rain isn't actively freezing, so it's a nice day. Yes. It also allows him to keep an eye out for watchers as they approach the house. He actually doesn't reach out with his mind, perhaps not wanting to alert anyone who might be inside. He pauses at the edge of the dead grass, and then starts pacing around the house, looking for signs of life - or of absence, such as a full mailbox or whatever vehicle the Whitehouses might have.

His pacing takes him in a spiral towards the house itself, so that he can peek into a window. "You've got your degree now, and they can't take it back," he says, quietly, to Isabella, "so how are you feeling about breaking and entering?" Is he joking? There's a glimmer of humor in his eyes as he looks back at her.

As far as anyone else is concerned, they're just two lovers out for a lovely stroll in the not-quite freezing rain, there's absolutely nothing to see here. In fact, they even look it as they walk, with Isabella's hand in his, bundled up in Spring gear - jacket, jeans, boots - and lightly chatting about other things. Work, rumors about their mutual acquaintances ("Erin might be pregnant and apparently she's getting married!") and so on, and so forth. Her jacket's hood is pulled up to hide her hair.

But her hand leaves his once they get closer to the Whitehouse property, wary green-and-gold eyes taking a look at it before she follows Alexander into the perimeter. Her blood is up, as always when she's doing something she isn't supposed to, following her taller companion as they skirt around the house. She peeks into the same window when he does and honestly, it might even be somewhat adorable. Baby's first (serious) B&E!

"We're just going to look around for a little while," she whispers to him. "It's not like we actually want to steal anything." Right? And with that, she reaches forward in an attempt to push up the window.

Alexander smiles at Isabella. "You're incorrigible," he says as she pushes at the window. Like it wasn't his idea in the FIRST place. But rather than continue to push at the window, he gestures at her to follow him around to the back door, to try the knob, gently, and then look around for a hidden key. Hey. Sometimes people hide keys. "I seem to remember that Mrs. Whitehouse is bedridden," he murmurs. "Even if no one's home, there should be some signs of life. She's not likely to go out for a day's walk, or something." A sudden scowl. "I really need to learn how to pick locks."

"I am. We need to have a serious discussion about your taste in company later, Mister Clayton." It's all soft, but teasing, Isabella winking at him With the window unable to be moved, she sighs and moves around with him towards the back door. "Right, well, far be it for this to actually be easy," she tells him as she searches around for a hidden key; she looks under flower pots and pokes at what could look like a fake brick or two. When he tells her that Mrs. Whitehouse might be bedridden though, she looks up. "You didn't tell me their mother was still alive."

Alexander has a rare medical condition and cannot see doormats or anything beneath them. IT'S TRUE. (It's not.) Either way, he searches fruitlessly until the door goes 'click', and then there's a look back towards Isabella. "Tell me that was you, and I'll kiss you. Otherwise, stay behind me." Because doors mysteriously opening usually mean bad things. He sidles up to the open door, and pushes it carefully open before walking inside. He sniffs the air of the kitchen for recent cooking scents, studies the tidiness of it all with a frown. He moves towards the hallway and the living room.

...well, the doormat was too obvious of a solution, so naturally the two of them miss it. Come on, guys. You're supposed to be smart!

At least, in spite of Alexander's lack of lockpicking skills, Isabella is inured to fiddling with locks to get to where she needs to be, a necessary skill for a woman who shuts down a local bar regularly with Easton Marshall and who usually can't find her keys in an inebriated state. So there goes the lock and her companion's comment gets a faint grin. "That was me," she confirms, tilting her face up to present her cheek for her 'reward', before following him inside; she only stays behind him because he manages to move first, otherwise she'd be Leeroying her way inside per her usual.

She attempts to keep her footfalls quiet, though, pausing and listening now that she knows someone else might be in the house. It's surprisingly tidy and the fact is visible on her expression - maybe she's misjudged a drunkard's ability to keep his own house in order.

Alexander delivers the reward, with a press of cool lips on her cheek, and a whispered promise of better, later. He walks carefully through the hallway, stopping long enough to look at the pictures. All of Alice. His lips tighten, his shoulders hunching before he moves forward. He looks around the living room when they get there. The mundane surroundings don't calm his apprehension, especially when he sees the little wooden puzzle. "I gave that to Alice," he says. Then moves forward to pick it up, and see if anything else is written on the tag.

They're twins - identical twins - and Isabella has never met Alice or Violet Whitehouse. To her, it's nearly impossible to determine which is which, or the fact that there's only one twin on display in these walls. By Alexander's expression, though, given his tension, she can understand, at least, that something about the portraits are making him unhappy, and she can fill in the blanks there. A hand reaches out to touch his arm in a reassuring fashion, before she continues onto the living room. The puzzle earns him a blink.

She lets him take it, but is instantly wary. "So she's been here," she says quietly, turning her eyes towards where the stairs leading to the second floor would be. She starts to examine the room while the man inspects the object in an attempt to look for signs of recent life, other than the returned puzzle.

"Goddamn it." The curse explodes out of Alexander as he hunches over, but doesn't fall. Although he sways in place, tears rising, then running down his cheeks. He braces himself, aware of Isabella there, aware of how little she enjoys seeing the damage that reading murder weapons and the like can do to him. And he's mostly able to contain it. Mostly. He reaches back with one hand to check on the status of his skull, then wipes at his eyes. "Careful. Alice killed Walter. Or...mostly Alice. Partially Alice." His voice is toneless. "She's probably not still here. Not if she knew I'd come and left this. But she might have left more surprises."

She knows he's going to read it, the moment he finds it, and so Isabella internally braces herself. It doesn't occur to her, yet, that the puzzle might have been a murder weapon up until he starts reeling from the experience of it. Her hands come up, somewhere behind and to the side of him in an effort to steady him, his curse lighting up her blood and forcing adrenaline to surge through it; her unhappiness unspools from her in waves, but there is a resigned sort of acceptance there, also, and she attempts to steady him as he keeps on his feet. One of her grasping hands eases away so she could dig into the pocket of her jacket, to produce a bandanna and proceeds to wipe his face, if he allows, quiet, soothing noises parting her lips.

"I'll be as careful as I can," she murmurs. There's a glance at the puzzle, and then the floor. "If she killed him here, what happened to the body? Unless she pulled him in a Dream?" She slowly gets down on her knees, to peer at the floor, and underneath the couch.

"I'm sure she cleaned up after herself," Alexander says, with a rueful look at the wood beneath their feet. "She's a smart woman. And even on Elm, someone would eventually start noticing the smell if she just left a corpse here." He doesn't put down the puzzle, but he does turn and bend to lay one hand briefly on her back as she kneels. "Let's search the rest of the house. I don't know that we'll find anything, but I like to be thorough." He can still taste the blood at the back of his throat, and he swallows hard against it when she rubs his face. He offers her a smile. "It'll be all right, Isabella. It happens a lot."

"If that's the case, she did a very good job - no sign of a murder, other than..." Isabella glances at the puzzle, expression pulled in a faint grimace. Though with no sign of insidious actions left on the floor or even under the couch, she rises from her place on the floor. And once Alexander's face is back in order, she sighs at his reassurances. "It does, and I know you're great at it," she tells him. But I don't have to like it lingers at the tail end of that sentence, unsaid, but he knows that, also - she's said it several times. But she does plant her lips delicately on his cheek, a gesture just as much drawn from affection as it is worry, before she tilts her head. "We could go upstairs, see if Mrs. Whitehouse might still be there," she suggests quietly. "Or we can check out the detached garage outside." That could be where the body is; her face reflects it, but the words remain unsaid. "I'll follow your lead."

"Upstairs, first. Then the garage. The less we're seen going in and out, the better," Alexander says, with a sigh. He smiles at the kiss, though. He turns, one hand clutching the puzzle, and goes upstairs to check the rooms there. Still careful, especially as he walks upwards; old staircases tend to creak, and he's not really a lightly built man.

The open bedroom must be the twins'. Isabella shared everything with her own twin, but certainly not living spaces. The layer of dust suggests the lack of use, taking in the posters on the wall, if any, and the various other belongings left behind. She doesn't touch anything, but she does close her eyes in an attempt to hunt for hidden alcoves and things that might not match up the visible, physical space. Did they keep diaries? Treasures that they hid from their parents?

Alexander does reach out with his mind, carefully, then frowns. "Nothing. Emotionally, I mean. I think someone's scrubbed it. Might have been Alice - but I suppose it could have been Violet, a long time ago, even." He watches her search the room, trusting her spacial awareness more than his own, but scans down the upstairs hall, zeroing in on that shut door. "Call out if you find anything," he murmurs, and makes his way towards the door at the end of the hall, testing to see if it's unlocked. If it is? He opens it.

"Nothing," Isabella says, venturing outside of the open bedroom and following Alexander's wake to the one that is shut tight at the end of the hall, moving towards where she had seen him last. But the moment she steps in that direction, the smell hits her with the force of a speeding truck, and she's only able to barely prevent herself from losing the contents of her stomach. There's a press of her hand over her nose and mouth, stepping into the bedroom of Mrs. Whitehouse, taking in the dessicated corpse; it isn't the first time she's seen a mummified body.

She scrutinizes it carefully from where she stands, this rocking chair that's so decidedly still. The rope, though? She hears that, too, her eyes meeting Alexander's before her fingers reach for the curtain, to push it just slightly to the side so she could peer outwards towards the rope swing.

"Isabella, don't com--" Why does Alexander even bother? She's already there, and he reaches out to touch the back of her neck, trying to soothe her with cool skin even as he covers his own mouth and nose with his other hand. He follows her into the bedroom. "I don't...think this was Alice. I don't think. It seems too old." A pause. "But then, it has been months." He reaches out and lightly touches the new wig offered to the corpse, but before he can read it, he hears that creak and catches Isabella's eyes. He moves to stand beside her, so that he can also look out.

His first instinct to shield her from this earns him a long look that softens when he reaches for her. "It's alright," Isabella tells Alexander quietly, though she nods her agreement with his observations. "Might be from natural causes. She was just..." Never moved. Never buried. She waits for the man to do what he needs to - he's the investigator, after all, but when they manage to catch Alice on her swing, with her perfect hair and big, crystalline eyes, she turns her face to meet Alexander's stare.

She does return Alice's wave, index and middle fingers lifting upwards in acknowledgment. "She's waiting," she tells her companion quietly.

Alexander also waves. Just because a crazy lady tainted your puzzle gift with MURDER is no reason to be rude.

Besides, Alexander is more okay with random murder images than most people. He takes a step back from the window and the curtain before saying, "So she is." He gives her a serious look. "Remember what I said, Isabella. Now, more than before, even." He takes a breath. "I give it even odds she's gone when we get down there, anyway. Just to fuck with us." A half smile, then, before he turns and leads the way back down the stairs, to the back door, and out into the dead yard.

"I know. But that's out the window if she hurts you, though." Isabella is serious there, too. "Though now that you've said that? She'll probably still be there." There's a hint of a smile, that fades almost immediately. Sliding her hands in her pockets, she follows Alexander's wake down the stairs, through the kitchen and out into the backyard towards the swing. She keeps at a companionable distance, somewhere to the side and behind him. There's a glance at the detached garage, but she doesn't move in that direction just yet.

Alexander has no faith. None at all! Because Alice is still here swinging on her swing when the pair comes down to greet her in the backyard. She just keeps on swinging, back and forth, seeming to brighten when she sees Alexander there. Though, the brightness fades when her bright blue eyes switch up to Isabella.

"I don't know her," is what she says to Alexander.

Alexander reaches up and brushes his fingers across Isabella's hair at the serious response, and smiles at her. "You're probably right," he murmurs.

And she is! He takes a breath when he sees Alice is still there, but walks without hesitation towards her. "Alice, this is Isabella. Isabella, Alice. I hadn't seen Walter around in a while, so I wanted to drop by and see what was going on. I brought Isabella as a partner in crime." He hefts the puzzle thoughtfully. "Not its intended use, you know." It's perhaps surprisingly mild. "Are you doing okay?"

"Hi," Isabella offers; her greeting is perfunctory but not hostile, her hands sliding into her pockets as she stands nearby Alice and Alexander. "And yeah, he did, as a partner in crime. Your father's...reputation wasn't the best, so I thought I would offer to assist." She falls quiet after that, however, her attention falling on both when the investigator inquires about the state of things.

Alice steadies a long look on Isabella, glossy lips twisting into an ever-deepening frown in spite of the introduction. "Tick tock goes the clock," she says to Isabella, exaggeratedly clicking her tongue with the words, shrugs her shoulders, and returns her attention fully to Alexander.

"I told you it could hurt someone. You gave it to me. I knew what to do," she kicks her toe onto the ground to push off a little higher, the rope creaking against the branch. "I could feel your hate. Your anger. I did it so you didn't have to. You're welcome!" But the question makes her drag her foot onto the dead grass to halt the swing, twisting on the little seat to beam to Alexander. "I'm fine, can't you see? There is absolutely nothing wrong with me," it's a little sing-songy, but let's home the rhyming is unintentional.

"For the record, I'm not usually that subtle, Alice," Alexander says with the faintest of smiles. "I was hoping that you would play with the puzzle. Not cave in someone's skull." He considers the puzzle in his hand with resignation. "But thank you for giving it back to me." His eyes stay on her. "But I'm glad that you're doing well. I saw your mother." He doesn't look back at the house. "I'm going to have to call in the cops to pick her up, make sure that she's laid to rest. If you give me a way to reach you, I can let you know about arrangements, and handle whatever you like in that regard."

Tick tock goes the clock.

"Am I late for something?" Isabella wonders. "Or was that how you escaped? I remember a clock, but I don't have it."

Alexander's own remarks causes her to turn her head in that direction, her teeth worrying faintly on her lower lip at the idea of having to call in a corpse.

"You will leave my mother alone or I will wipe every memory you have out of that broken little head of yours and I'll make sure you never get them back," Alice says all of this calmly, so serenely. She even smiles as she says it. Then, she kicks her foot into the ground and starts swinging once more. Creak creak goes the rope swing. "Do you remember the clock?" she doesn't look at Isabella, but the question could be presumed to be for her. "Bar basement, doctor's office, upstate and more. I bet you don't remember. Nobody remembers, not if they want to keep their happy thoughts!"

And then the swing comes to a full stop again, as she turns that smile onto Alexander and Isabella. It's almost impish, that smile, cocky and full of glee. Like she knows something they don't and she's ready to rub their faces in it. "Well. Nobody used to remember. But I do now," she jerks a thumb at herself, "I remember everything. I could take you back." She shrugs her shoulders. "We could burn the whole place down. We could make sure no one ever goes there again," says the nutter. "It would be FUN!"

Alexander's eyes narrow and his breath comes out in a sudden rush, like she'd kicked him with one of those swinging feet. "Your mother is a withering corpse, Alice. Bugs are gnawing on her innards, and when the weather warms up again, mold will bloom behind her eyes and whatever's left of her cranial matter will ooze as black sludge from her ears and out of her mouth. It would be better for her to be laid to rest in peace." It's very matter-of-fact; he's got LOTS of pictures.

To the rest, he just stares at her. That flat, assessing stare. "Why do you remember when no one else does, Alice?"

The treat levied towards Alexander has her stepping forward reflexively, lips thinning into a tight line. It's only her doubt about her statements that stay her, confusion settling in her brain as to whether Alice can actually do what she describes. There's a quick glance towards the investigator, though when she opens her mouth again, Isabella offers: "Just the three locations - the basement, upstate and the Doctor's Office, but none of the other ones. I do know that there are thirteen."

Alice's disconcerting smile directed to them, it takes everything in her not to crawl into her own skin, but the look of startlement on her when the blonde claims to remember is very hard to hide. She is quiet when Alexander asks his question.

In one smooth movement, Alice rises from the swing and turns to glare at Alexander. "I will take every good memory you have left and I will twist and turn them wrong," she speaks in a sharp voice, hackles clearly raised. "I will fill your head with the worst thoughts until the black sludge oozes out your ears and your mouth and you will /never/ know the truth. And if you don't believe I can?" There's a certain haughtiness there. Pride. "Read your books," she sneers.

Alexander doesn't have to read any books though, because he can feel Alice in there. In his head. It suddenly feels as though that space between his ears is very crowded, like someone's wrapping their fingers about his brain and giving it juuuuust a little squeeze, a tug on one of the gray matter that tickles a happy memory and threatens to make it rot. But then the feeling fades away, nothing changed. She didn't do anything. She just wants to prove that she can.

"I told Violet she trusted the wrong people. That's why she's dead and I'm alive, I'm alive! And if you won't help me burn that place to the ground, I'll do it myself. But you made a promise," she narrows her eyes at Alexander, the threat heavy in her next words: "Violet couldn't keep her promises, either."

"Gkkhhhhkkk..."

It's a very dignified sound, the one Alexander makes as Alice slides inside his brain and touches it just enough to make her point. His breath goes harsh and shallow, and he conks himself lightly in the head as he raises both hands to the sides of his skull, closing his eyes and swaying for a moment. Before anything else, though, he says, "Isabella, I'm fine. It's okay."

It's not okay. That much is clear as he stares at the woman with the face of his friend with a complicated mix of terror, rage, and a deep, deep sadness. "You're losing the fight, aren't you?" he says, after a bit of silent study. He rubs at his face with his free hand. "But I did make a promise. And I keep those, where I can. I promised to do what I could to help and protect Violet's sister. And I will. So what is it that you would like me to do?"

There's a flash of fury winding over Isabella's green eyes the moment Alexander makes a sound that if nothing else tells her that Alice is doing something to the investigator. "Don't you-- !"

She would have said more, done more. It's in her eyes, the preparation of her body to leap forward and start a fight if necessary and really, it's only Alexander's sudden statement that mollifies her, because while she owes Alice Whitehouse nothing, she made her own promises to the man and her mouth shuts with a click the moment the amateur detective tells her that he's fine. He's clearly not, and the lie makes her grit her teeth behind closed lips. But her hidden hands are balling into tight fists, clutching at the inner lining of her pockets.

"Losing the fight? Alexander," Alice shakes her head, smiling confidently at the man. "I'm not losing any fight. I'm winning a war."

Then, she twists on her heel and perches right back onto her swing. Hands on the ropes, she pushes off. Creak, creak, creak. Poor Isabella, Alice doesn't even acknowledge her.

"You can go. I said I would call you when I needed you. That time will come soon enough. Oh, and Alexander?" she cants her head, that smile fixed in place. "Forget about my mother. Or I will make you forget."

Tap tap tap tap tap tap. Alexander's fingers beat a rapid, erratic rhythm on the surface of the puzzle, and the muscles in his jaws clench tight. Isabella, close enough, can hear his teeth grind. He breathes in deep through his nose. Holds it. Lets it out, slowly. Finally, he says, "You have my number when you need it, Alice." He reaches out for Isabella's arm, his touch light and gentle as he steps backwards and urges her to do likewise. He doesn't turn his back on the smiling young woman until he has to.

For a moment, she's rooted on the spot, entertaining visions of ripping the tree apart by the root and forcing the entire thing to collapse on the swing and take Alice Whitehouse with it. Isabella is barely cognizant of Alexander tugging at her to move, but it does...eventually. She swallows the growing embers of her ire and shifts to follow, her own hand disengaging from her jacket's pockets to curl on his forearm and grip it tight.