Genevieve
FORD IS AN UNSOLVABLE MYSTERY.
He's like no one I have ever had the... pleasure... of meeting before. There's some sort of enigma that encompasses him entirely, and what's with all the ambiguous confessions he tends to utter? How the fuck have I been involved in their mess for years without realizing it? I've never spoken to any of them before as I'm a year younger and have never been in any of their classes.
I've only ever known Ford to live in the house behind mine where our bedrooms face one another, though there's an expanse of gardens between us. His reputation has blatantly proceeded him since high school, but I've never thought to attribute him to the lethal world of Red Alert. And now I'm seemingly a pawn in the chaos too, so where will that eventually and inevitably leave me?
Dead? Fighting for my life? On the fragile cusp of death and wishing I was dead to cease my misery and agony?
My body shudders at the mere prospects that may be imminent for me, and no matter the numerous times I chorus to myself that I shouldn't dwell on such morbid probabilities, focusing on Ford's proximity to me is just as unsettling. Frankly, he's an asshole, and while I'm in the wrong for following him to the damn alleyway, I had to divulge the truth and there's no other avenue I could have taken.
Harris, I have learned, is not someone you want to interrogate. As charming as he may be, there's no way he'll appreciate an investigation into his life and much less his private matters. If there's a reason I'm not integrated into that part of Harris' life, it has to mean something.
It means your life, my mind admonishes.
Red Alert isn't just the stuff of myths and legends in Westville. It's reality and it's disturbing. Girls going missing and never being found again is the norm in our town, no matter how much money parents throw at private investigators. Maybe they're also part of Red Alert—the private investigators—and they're merely protecting their legacy. Maybe the girls go abroad. Or maybe their remains are buried somewhere in Westville.
Their families will never know.
Despite identities of Red Alert members being mostly unknown, families still warn their daughters of the perils. The girls seem to be targeted the most. Along with my best friends, I also received the same lecture when I was younger, terminated with the ensuing promise to always bring my boyfriends over to the house early so my parents can meet him. Not that they know anything about Red Alert, but at least they can gauge his behaviour, evaluating him.
"I think we're safe to leave," Ford announces stiffly, his voice thick as he makes no effort to distance himself from me.
Amputated from my profound reverie, I raise my gaze to meet his eyes. Despite the striking crystal blue hue of them, they seem icier in terms of not being full of warmth or emotion. It's as though he's just dead behind them.
"Yeah," I reply noncommittedly.
When Ford continues to remain immobile, I shift past him, brushing against the side of him as I free myself of his proximity. Since we arrived at the alleyway next to some random bar, I've ceaselessly endeavoured to block out the grotesque sounds emanating from the couple engaged in an exaggerated makeout session near us. Truthfully, it's either not focus on the couple or the closeness of my body against Ford's, and not to mention the shots that pierced the air, blinding me into paralysation, especially following Ford's answer that they're meant for us.
Waiting, Ford retrieves his dirty jacket from the floor and shakes the dust and dirt from it. He cradles it under his arm and surveys the alleyway before nodding his head in the direction of the opening. He steps in front me and I dutifully follow him, dipping my chin so I'm as out of view as possible.
