Chapter Six

08:30 am. New Year's day.

Truth and lies can be shuffled like a deck of cards. It's all about perspective. The ingenuous foreigner, the deceitful young lady and the sullen drunkard had their own stories. But, why the half-truths and concealment? It seemed nonsensical to Loxley. 

Her head throbbed like an egg ready to hatch. Loxley grumbled under her breath. The pain had began slowly and now radiated around her entire head.

The detective was beginning to experience the blight of tension headaches. 

She pulled open the top drawer of her desk and grabbed the unopened pack of Paracetamol. She then cracked open two tablets and popped it in her mouth. Loxley seized the half-drank two litre bottle of mineral water that sat on her desk, unfastened the cap and swallowed down the pills with a gulp of water.

Loxley wasn't one for medications and pharmaceuticals, but her third cup of tea wasn't doing it's trick, as per usual.

The rhythmic racket of papers coming out of the printer shut down and she turned her head towards the machine. Loxley outstretched her left arm, and picked up the small stack of papers from the printer tray. She then leafed through the pages.

Loxley grabbed the manila folder on her desk and slid the papers into it, and power walked out of her office.

She stopped in front of the maple door and twisted the handle, entering the interrogation room for the fourth time that day.

"You like to keep people waiting, innit?" Niven's pettish voice greeted her.

"My apologies." Loxley said, drawing the chair and sitting across from the girl. She placed the folder in front of her and laid her clasped hands on top.

"Where's your sidekick?" Niven asked, reclining in the straight-back chair. She crossed her one arm over her chest while the other gripped her bicep in an embrace.

"Detective Ebony has some business to take care off. It'll be just you and me for this session, I'm afraid." Loxley smiled but received no warmth from the opposite side.

Niven possessed a passive look, her olive-green eyes fixed in a steely gaze.

"What happened to your spectacles?" Loxley blurted out.

The girl stared at her in a mixture of perplexity and amazement, her thins lips partially parted. "I dropped the specs by accident and cracked one of the lens while fixing the motel sign yesterday," Niven revealed, and sighed wearily, adding: "The day went pear-shaped from there. How did you know?"

"There's indents on your nose from where the bridge of the spectacles rests and you squint your eyes when looking at a distant target." Loxley pointed out.

The girl wore a hint of smile on her lips but it was transient. "Blimey, you're good." Niven leant further back on her chair. The chair creaked in protest.

"I have to." Loxley stated. "Part of the job description. How long have you been working at Seven Crows?" She asked, transitioning into business mode without batting an eye.

"I've been working there since I was sixteen years old."

Loxley noticed a sense of obligation in Niven's voice. "The motel appears very old."

"As old as the hills." Niven confirmed. "It's an inherited property. Mr. Boone don't care a fig about the place but he's also not keen on giving away the motel to some stranger. He's merely taking care of it."

"Seven Crows is an odd name for a motel." 

"Well, the Boones are an odd family. But, the best ones always are."

"Oh, absolutely. Very much so that you feel like you should include yourself as a member?" Loxley lifted her eyebrow in question.

Niven looked taken aback at first but she regained her composure, and a lilting dissonant chuckle left her mouth. It reminded Loxley of a cartoon character.

"Pardon me, what exactly are you implying, Detective Loxley?" The girl squinted her eyes. This time, not because of her short-sightedness but in skepticism.

"You have previously stated your name as Niven Boone, yet you address the man as Mr. Boone, and from what I've heard the sweet married couple unfortunately don't have any children." Loxley stated and opened the manila folder. She combed through the papers and drew out a single printout.

Loxley had her eyes trained on the girl as she placed the printout on the table and slid it across to her.

Niven sat completely still. She stared discombobulated at the freshly printed image on the paper.

It was a picture of an old Victorian house built in red bricks that has lost its brilliance over the years by the external conditions. The compound was surrounded by a high fence to keep out the strangers, with a wrought iron double gates. Between the gates and the building was a large yard that was converted to an equipped playground and curtains hung on the windows.

"Do you recognise that place?" Loxley asked.

"No." Niven said. An obvious lie. Her face was set firm like rigor mortis and her jaw locked tight together. "Looks like something out of a Scooby-Doo episode."

"Birtwhistle's Home for Children. The name should ring a bell." Loxley's lips curved into an amused half-smile, her hazel eyes evaluating the girl.

"I'm not an orphan." Niven shot back, a slight chuckle escaping from her lips. Her crossed arms gripped even tighter around herself in a self-hugging manner.

"You cross your arms not as a posture of comfortable, but a barrier." Loxley spouted out, causing Niven to tilt her head in confusion. "Just like a child would hide behind their mother's skirt whenever a threatening situation arises, folding your arms tightly across your chest is an unconscious attempt to protect yourself. A full self embrace."

"You're not making sense."

"Well, I get it. Birtwhistle's something you've hidden in a box in the repository of your memory. But, you and I know that your denial is just hilariously sad at this point."

Niven merely looked at her without uttering a word, but her eyes were messed up with multiple emotions, none of them positive, turning into an olive drab.

The stable ticking of the wall clock grew louder before Niven's nasally voice brokered the atmosphere.

"I ran away from the Birtwhistle's when I was sixteen, and I've never looked back over my shoulder again. As the Fates would have it, I met the Boones. They were more than kind enough to give me a roof to stay under and a job at their motel. God has a wicked sense of humour," Niven chuckled but it sounded bitter, "Mr. and Mrs. Boone are like a family I never had but I'm not a Boone. There you have it!"

"What's any of this have to do with the murder, anyway?" Niven asked, her voice as intense as her expression.

"Absolutely nothing." Loxley stated. "And, everything."

All trace of Niven's casual nonchalance disappeared. "What?"

"Jacques' statement contradicts your proclamation."

Niven tossed her head back and squeezed her eyes shut like a petulant child on the verge of throwing a tantrum. "Jacques has a memory like a sieve. I swear all that alcohol is killing his brain cells," she sighed, "He's probably having a memory lapse."

Loxley merely watched the girl with a narrowed suspicion. The girl painted a sympathetic look on her face. Loxley knew Niven wasn't lying this time. "So, you still stand by your statement about Mr. Patel?"

"Hmph! Yes!" Niven almost yelled it at Loxley.

"You're a skilled liar, Niven, I'll give you that, but forgive me if I don't believe you." Loxley said. Her voice remained mild and collected. "Your eyes tend to flutter for a good few seconds as you're changing the script in your head. It's unobtrusive yet it is there."

Niven's fingers curled tighter around her biceps, and when she spoke there was an undercurrent to her words. Her tone clipped. A cold anger. "I'm not sure what you're getting at, Detective."

"You're a born fabulist. Growing up in a place that isn't exactly normal, and where you felt didn't belong, learning to tell lies was a coping mechanism. A shield against your grim reality." Loxley continued, leaning backward and crossing her arms. "A simple amusement if you could convince someone your lies were actually the truth. But, you find you still have to lie about certain things." 

"Old habits die hard, isn't it? Nobody ever comes fully clean, Niven." Loxley turned the corners of her mouth down for a moment, resembling an upside-down horseshoe.

"Rubbish!" Niven shouted. Unshed tears of rage, frustration and hurt pride glistened her eyes. "I don't know what you think you know, but you're talking rubbish! Absolute rubbish!"

"It's not too late to break free from the shackles of lies you've woven around yourself. Isn't that what Mr. and Mrs. Boone wishes?"

Niven looked like she wanted to scream. Scream and yell and curse and fight. Instead, Loxley watched the girl swallow hard and take a long swig of air.

"Fine." Niven breathed out at last.

"I want the whole truth, not your version of the truth and no embellishments," Loxley stressed.

The detective pushed back the chair, and hoisted up to her feet. She walked over to the recording handycam, her face wearing an inquisitive look.

"Don't miss any detail," Loxley's stern eyes secured on the girl's, "Let's start from the beginning." She switched on the camera.