S6–Arrested

Here lies, floats, flies–you get the idea–the scene of Ian’s arrest from his point of view and not Vera’s. Enjoy this extra bit of information! Here’s the original scene: Chapter V (Actually Completion of Chapter IV)

Pitch blackness shrouded the interior of the shack. Lying on his cot, Ian stared into the inky void as though it were the still waters of a stone well. Yet, even without a single glimmer of light to aid him, he still saw Elaine’s sweet face the night before her death—when he gave her the cream rose: her eyes had brimmed with promise. There it flitted, engraved on his mind’s eye, like a broken film. And as the night closed in, suffocating him, it almost equaled the weight now pressing against his chest.

The grating of a car rolling up the gravel path outside made Ian stir from his study. A beam of yellow light flashed through the window as it turned to park. The ignition switched off. Two car doors slammed shut. Crunch, crunch. Two pairs of footsteps sauntered up to the shack door.

Even before they knocked, Ian knew who had sought him out. He lay still. He deserved it—anything they chose to charge him with—he deserved it.

The men outside beat at the door. “Open up, Ian Donald! This is the police!” they called out.

Ian stood up. In the dark, he groped for his shirt thrown against the back of a wooden chair, and aimlessly buttoning the front, he switched on the dangling, blanched light bulb above.

“Yes?” He threw open the door, his large frame blocking the pallid light within.

The policemen were taken aback. Then setting his jaw, one stepped forward. “You’re under arrest, Mr. Donald, charged with the murder of Elaine Whitney.”

Ian breathed heavily. He felt as though two powerful hands had gripped the chords within his chest, and now wrung them mercilessly into a rope. He had heard those words before, but only in the vicious whisper of his thoughts. To hear them spoken—no, not merely spoken but stated with the assurance of rightness—he received a blow greater than any man could throw.

“I’ll dress,” Ian said, his voice unperturbed, his face stone. He shut the door.

Ian rummaged through a closet, pulled out his shirt and trousers, and changed. Sitting down on the stiff cot, he tied the laces of his leather boots. He was ready, but he still sat.

From the corner of his eye, he spotted a wilted rose shriveling on the over-turned crate next to his cot. He reached for it, but then hesitated. No, the police would empty his pockets as soon as they reached the station.

He stood up. Switching off the lights, he strolled out the door.

After all, his most treasured possession he still kept, burned into his memory. Tucked in the folds of his mind, her sweet face would forever remain, to haunt him the rest of his life.