This chapter is an entry for the Midsummer Murders Contest by Crime.

"So what about September 19th and 20th? Look at my café—less crowded. And these warning Instagram posts about defense—"

"Red Killing Hood's Judgement Day," I said, rubbing my palms to shoo the chills running on it. "He killed someone at the opera last night, here at London. You know his pattern. There will be one this noon."

"Rubbish." Axel loosens the apron tied around his neck, allowing more breeze to cool his scrunched face.

Deciding it's not the correct topic to pursue, I lifted my gaze and let it wander. More visitors enter the café we're at, which belongs to Axel's dad and where he works as a supervisor at.

Today we're lucky to book a spot on the terrace, under the mushroom-like umbrellas. With a couple each of avocado coffees, fettuccine carbonara, and mousses with a cherry on top.

Yet, Red Killing Hood's still out there, lurking for a location to promote at tomorrow's newspaper's headline.

While I'm chewing bits of my mousse, Axel's ruffling through his messy locks, skimming over my phone's screen.

Although we're nobody but normal citizens, the prospect of having a murderer roaming around our city is terrifying enough.

He returns the phone back to my side as he rolls his eyes.

The glass clinks from the next table drew our attention. They come from a middle-aged woman with a pale skin, frizzy golden curls, and a sneering expression beneath her apple-sized sunglasses.

"Young man, where's my cookies-milkshake?" She twists her refilled wine glass with her manicured fingers, complementing her disdaining tone.

Axel's shoes kick my sandaled ones under the table, and as we exchange glances, I caught his offended face.

"Sorry, ma'am. Wait a sec." Axel forces the most sheepish smile he's got and burst into the indoor site with a flushed face.

"Holly! Get table 6's order!" Axel can be so extra at times. Life as a café owner's son has made him like this. He even inherited his dad's amplified voice.

"Another zero for the supposed heroes?" I read for myself, gulping when the news portal showcased a blotted-red title of a breaking news.

The cops have failed to narrow suspects on last night's after-opera murdering stage. However, one name remains at the top—the wolfish and merciless beast we know as Red Killing Hood.

I round up each corner for a sign of a murderer. It's not impossible for the top fugitive to strike here.

"Ahhhh!"

A woman's scream attracts each of the necks. With wobbly legs, I scramble down from the couch and search for the source of the commotion, which is near my table.

My instincts kick over. I divide through the forming crowd and rush to the front . . . to find the insulting woman who sat next to us, lying with her eyes rolling backward.

Sitting on the floor across her is Holly, the waiter who Axel told to deliver her milkshake, breathing sharply and crying.

To my aghast, shards of glass drenched in a pool of red wine littered next to the woman's limp hand. Combined within are large shatters of a tall glass, bits of crushed cookies, and brownish milkshake with chocolate chips scattered around.

Strangled sounds escape from the woman's lips. She coughed, her face flaming. Her chest rises up and down in an abrupt movement before she surrenders to the pressure and knocks her head over a table's leg.

She's having a violent convulsion. And none of us here knows exactly how to treat her.

But something's better than none. Without second thoughts, I slip my arm to scoop her head up and tell her to calm down, since the convulsions are getting more violent. Her once intimidating pupils dilate with such intensity they might bob out of her sockets.

"Stay there!" I panicked. I command several people at once to call 999, while Axel's suddenly popping next to me, lifting Holly off the ground and comforts her as they enter the nearly-empty indoor space.

Her pulse's throbbing in her wrists, and she won't stop trembling. I haven't mastered CPR yet, so I grab a glass of water nearby and thrust it into her mouth, which is now as red as the spilled red wine.

"Stay awake—" Sprang!

I don't have time to heed the distraction. Whatever it is, I have to save her. She won't die, not when I'm here.

"She's not dead, Amary. I'm handling this, cancel the other calls too, okay?"

Silence. The entire place is soundless thanks to the abruptly clammed mouths and the straining ears. 

My attention snapped to a bald man with thin hoars above his ears, who snatched a gawking woman's phone from her possession.

His face is calming and fatherly, with lined eyes and a sunglasses hanging above his ears. But still, my suspicion rises at the sight of him.

Why did he cancel all the calls to 999? This man can't possibly be . . . Red Killing Hood himself? Oh, Jesus Christ, please don't let it be!

"No need to panic." He addressed me with a soothing tone and a gentle smile as he returns the phone. "Boris Rivers."

Ah, stupid me! How can I forget my source of inspiration, who inspired me to pursue a career as a senior cop?

Murmurs and hums of approval spread around the gathering crowd, even from those sophisticated and daunting. Their pupils focused on our center of attention—this Chief Inspector who hasn't appeared in public for years.

"You strong-willed nuisances are such plaques. How can you leave your house when every 19th and 20th are our national critical day?" He sniffs and twitches his nose in discomfort, a stern look over his aging face. "But I might have thanked you all. Thanks to you, we've cornered the Red Killing Hood . . ."

The familiar name brings goosebumps over my skin. How can he state that name with such calmness? And does he mean the grisly Red Killing Hood is here?

"Now, since I'm officially taking over the investigation here, my commands aren't options; they're rules to obey. When I say no one's out of here . . . don't underestimate my physique. And my investigation skills." With a challenging smirk, he forces people to return to their spots without even second calls.

Even Red Killing Hood himself or any potential suspects, don't dare to cross paths with him. His experience has taught him better about facial expressions—one of his strongest abilities. A slightly misplaced expression and someone's done with his future.

He cranes his neck to my direction, pity clearly strewn all over his features. "You included, boy. After you place her there," he nods to the vacant couch behind us, and as I shakily try to lift the woman, the often-assumed pension chief strides to the woman's previous spot, scrutinizing her used utensils and food leftovers.

In a site which donated the most ruckus to this busy street, barely a sigh's heard. Everyone is bating their breaths, tensed.

But I'm both jumpy and tensed. The woman's convulsions don't even recede! I'm a student cop like he was, not a talented medic! Besides supporting her head, there's nothing useful I can do. When as each second passes, her creaking breaths intensify . . .

"Strychnine." I gazed back to the chief, who's inspecting a thumbnail-sized nut with pointed glares. "Poison nuts. Doesn't this fit the dramatic necessity of our fugitive?"

My stomach goes queasy at the mention of the item. No wonder the woman's internal torture doesn't decrease the slightest bit.

"What if there's no Red Killing Hood?" A shaky voice interrupted from the entrance to the indoor spot.

It's Ashton, the head waiter, and Axel's trusted companion. His tux's stained with red, which I suspected as spilled red wine and not blood.

"What if I'm certain?" The chief balanced the nut in front of his face for everyone else to see. "We've heard about Red Killing Hood's dramatic methods. Yesterday, his equipment were violin strings, a stepladder, and an anesthetizing pill. Today, the combination is two spilled wines, a bunch of Strychnines . . . "

"No! My workplace won't sell poison to our customers." Axel burst out from the entrance, his fists balled on his sides. With an emphasis on each of his words, he continues, "If this turns out to be a gimmick—"

"Two." Chief Boris announced, sweeping the clamorous place into silence once more. With a daunting smirk on his lips, he explains further, "Two suspects."

"We were witnesses, not—"

"First, Mr. Axel, do you acknowledge the existence of these dangerous nuts in your pantry?" I feel the blood rushing to my head, panicked for Axel's lack of cooperation for these kinds of cases. One wrong remark can drag him straight to the cell bars . . .

"Should I repeat myself?" Axel steps forward, his face blushing with fury. "They aren't from mine. Stop spouting nonsense and shoo off before I report you of—"

"But they came from this plate." Chief Boris rounded off the table and lifts the flat white plate, with various colorful sauces dripping down from their previous arrangements. "This is your famous iridescent pancake. You," he beckons to one of the spectators and points to the stack of menus, "get that here. Let's see how slithery this uncooperative serpent is."

Uh-oh. Axel and his anger isn't a favorable combination to witness in public.

"Chef Axel Ford is responsible for the desserts." He quoted, causing shades of red to spread on Axel's bitten cheeks.

"God, I didn't do it! I swear! Ask-ask him!" Axel's voice can be heard from even miles away. But his panic and lack of understanding for this case are strengthening his potentials of being a suspect. As Chief Boris stares at me, I caught the calming aura he infected my way.

"Explain." His mouth curls into a frown, displeased at Axel's behavior.

"Gracie's the one responsible this noon. I . . . I was with Juno. You trust his alibi more than mine." He stutters.

"It wasn't me either, chief. I'm a newbie waitress here—"

"Which doubles up your chance of attempting to murder this woman. It's possible for you to notice her as an old grudge. Did you realize that I've been here since you flipped the 'closed' sign on the door to 'open'?" She shakes her head, bouncing red curls foreshadowing her forming tears. "I watched your envying gaze to the occupied tables." 

Silence befell on the whole terrace. But this time, I pictured the sophisticated noses high in the air as they observe the plain and unattractive waitress, who looks as guilty as a first-time thief would be. And the sneering voices they'll make the next time they return.

We wait for her sniffs and tears to halt. When they do, her sentences are still unclear. All I could make out is she'll never murder someone for their richness.

And like all common suspects, she denies she snuck the Strychnine nuts into someone's dish.

"I've gotten three suspects; none who agreed with their involvement in this crime." The chief skims over his yellowy notebook pages. "And all of whom threw the blames over someone else."

The sound of blaring sirens ricochet off the glass walls, along with the vibrant red lights of an ambulance. Its tires screech on the impassable road, and after parking with its backdoor facing the terrace, two medics rush outside with a clean stretcher. Two more trail behind, preceding their companions and approach my sides.

"We're taking her, sir." One of the males said as he gently untangles my grip from the convulsing woman's wrist.

"We'll make sure to keep her alive. Come on, Johnstone—help me heave her in three." 

They drop the woman's body on the stretcher and push it. One's injecting an infusion needle on her right wrist, and soon after they've disappeared from our clear sight.

Their appearance relieves the tension a little bit. At least for us innocent, our safety's save with all the standby cops on the roads. But for Red Killing Hood himself, it's a grave situation. Never has he been cornered like a cheese in a trap.

But that's what I've been waiting for. The moment of truth when all his secrets will disclose themselves after months of his bloody plague all over the UK.

As the echoing sirens distanced, Chief Boris gazes over the distance and returns to our main subject.

Whatever it is, I don't believe it's Axel or Ashton. Even the vulnerable Gracie seems too weak for a suspect, with her occasional breakdowns and weeps.

But has the chief inspected further insights from the visitors? They could have some hidden motives too, although not as prominent as the waiters'.

I timidly lock my gaze with his. "These people besides the waiters can be responsible too. I mean, they . . . "

"None of them are. I've sat in this place for more than five hours, re-entering on different clocks and choose the different spots and waiters." His tone hardens, glaring at the lineup of staffs at the far corner.

"But . . . "

"Strychnines work in a half-an-hour span. To adjust it on this plate takes a couple of minutes, thanks to their slippery tendencies. And as keen as my crinkly eyes could tell, I haven't seen an abnormal visitor's absentee."

"Detective, do you mind if I ask why have you arrived here since ten? Did you know this is going to happen?" Ashton asked.

"A source—or an intern spy?—informed me. Be ready at The Exclusives and to grab as many beverages as possible. Lie low and don't get noticed until something occurs."

So, it's one of the staffs here. But who can possibly do such an inhumane thing? Poisoning and strangling someone's throat indirectly, followed by the unstoppable convulsions . . .

I've been a loyal customer of this café ever since its premiere and I've recognized some of the long-term staffs like Axel, Ashton, and Holly.

Wait, speaking of Holly . . . where is she? Wasn't she with Axel?

She's not among the lineup of gathered staffs.

Where is she? Still sobbing in the toilet? Drinking a cup of coffee to warm herself? Or . . .

No—it's impossible that she's Red Killing Hood, right? The one with red capes at nighttime and a facade on daytime?

I refuse to believe that theory. But her disappearance leaves a bitter hole inside me. What if she is involved in this murder attempt?

The pure-hearted girl is secretly a murderer? Can she . . . ?

I have to find her first before Detective Boris does.

"Detective, a moment to the restroom." I throw a quick smile and dash through the interiors, heart racing because I'm getting nearer to either the truth . . . or the false cue.

I enter a narrow corridor on the left side of the dim and music-less room, straining my ears for any bated sobs. After seconds of waiting, desperation hunts me.

I hesitate in front of the women's section, dreading of what I'll find inside.

But the longer I hesitate, the more my curiosity squeezes my head, urging me to act.

So I knock on the door, expecting a reaction from the silent Korean-English girl. But when another wall of silence hits me, my sandals kick the door open with a brute force.

I flung inside when I discover a putrid scent coming from the right side of the facility.

And there she is, with a tap flowing wildly above her head. With lots of blood. Smearing over the marble sink and the glittery installments. Gushing out from her unmoving wrist, which hung above the sink. The water washes over the blood, but it's an endless cycle.

Shock attacked me with a force I'm unready to face.

Holly Lancaster's dead. She committed suicide with a folded envelope covered in blood which came from her fingertips.

With a slow and disbelieving motion, I dialed 999. Asking for an ambulance for the second time to The Exclusives today.

***

To everyone who read this,

Please understand why I do this. I chose this path to swerve away from my dad's committed sins, one I never wish to acquire.

This is the disadvantages of having Red Killing Hood as your dad. When a car crash claimed his life, his only hope rested only on his sole daughter, who was too hesitant to resist his legacy.

The world should've celebrated the moment he lied on his deathbed last month, on his way to London after his last attack. But none of them knew. If only they did . . . I wouldn't be here, regretting my recent actions with my blood.

I would live my life with pride. Not with guilt after carefully scheming a plan to kill the violinist and the aristocrat lady.

You must wonder the motives behind my cold-blooded dad's habits.

It started on my seventeenth birthday party. Dad, who was a salesman, invited his colleagues. Being strangers in this country, we didn't celebrate the way most do. And after the party, dad's heart was scarred more than ever.

At first, it was only the chairman. But his first act infected him like a cigarette on lungs. 

And he becomes the man you're sought after until today.

And I'm here, wasting my life in the afterlife.

I wished to know you guys further—Axel, Gracie, Ashton, for being supportive and helpful to me; and you Juno, for treating me like a woman I am, not a strange introvert who stuttered in front of you whenever I tried to ask you out.

I'm sorry and thank you for everything.

Don't tell my mother, let her live a peaceful village life. When she asks where am I, tell her I'm in a better state than our darkest moments.

I'm really sorry to kill you before I realized what I've done, Miss Avanti Ricardo and Madam Seraphina Bourjois. And please use the best of your lives; Mister Austin Johnstone and Mister Derrick Song.