The Lies He Told | PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER ROMANCE |

CHAPTER SEVEN

Usually, I am not one to blow my own trumpet, but as I strolled along the beachfront toward the old, rustic bar ahead, the warm sunset dominating the dark sky, a truly breath-taking sight, with its vibrant colours reflecting off the rolling waves like shards of glitter, I knew, for lack of a better term, that I was the epitome of sartorial elegance.

It was clear for all to see that I had a sharp eye for fashion. Hair perfectly styled, sitting loosely in a messy yet sophisticated bun at the base of my neck, I left the cliff house tonight in a long-sleeved, knee-length grey dress cut from luxuriously expensive fabric, real pearls, carefully chosen to accessorise my outfit, adorned my neck, ears and wrists, a pair of black pointed kitten heels and a hard-shell clutch purse decorated with a spangle of clear jewels.

Even my makeup was on point.

Eyes accentuated by shimmery eye-shadow and mascara-brushed lashes, I glossed my lips matte nude and dusted my cheeks pale pink, then spritzed myself in the floral perfume Daniel had bought me one Christmas.

I had to be sure that my presence demanded the right dose of attention.

After all, I had a suspect to lure into my web of lies.

Let's pray, in the process of investigating Natasha Stewart's unsolved murder case, that I do not get myself ensnared in the preordained confinement of self-deception or trapped in extra-terrestrial life beyond the permanence of clueless earthlings and the burden of retrograde amnesia with the idiosyncratic water nymph and her transmundane approach to the human world.

If I rocked up to Royce Milton's place of work with a slobbish demeanour, looking bedraggled—messy, unkempt hair and wrinkled clothes that I wore to bed, which is basically the reality of how I operated these days, as I seldom made time for self-love or self-care—he would be reluctant to converse with me and much less likely to show me his vulnerable side.

Imagine Royce, the town's aspiring serial killer, in a compromised position, where an unsuspecting member of the public is capable of breaking through his impenetrable wall of combative hypervigilance for him to talk frankly and articulately about the nitty-gritty of his personal life. Or rather, to get him to trust me and expose the dirty little secrets he kept close to his chest.  

The once bright sun gradually faded into the horizon, disappearing through the distinctive line between the magical sky and the peaceful ocean.

With a slight breeze in my hair, I gazed at the gorgeousness of the calm yet dark water bathed in soft, golden hues, wondering how the gentle waves lapping against the shore would feel against my toes if I impulsively embarked upon a late-night adventure near the coast of harmonious monumentality and natural picturesqueness.

Heaven knows I earned that, peace and tranquillity, alone time, with only my thoughts to contend with. Maybe then, when consolidated by the persuasive power of deep rumination, I will find myself in the sphere of uncertainties.

Until recently, I only knew life beyond the limits of the cliff house when my husband was present, and with him away at work for the first time in months, executing the day and the life of a successful stockbroker, I had to step out of my comfort zone, unaccompanied and unchaperoned, to face my fears head-on, starting with the woman silently crying out for my help.

Closing in on the rundown, two-story bar, with a dingy façade, on the beachfront, the thatched roof, fenced decking and metal chairs with matching tables akin to Double Deuce in the movie Road House, I first noticed the tree-to-tree neon lights, graffitied walls and rundown vehicles, then spotted a camaraderie of unapproachable men, togged up in ink, chains, denim and leather, lingering in the poorly maintained car park of innumerable potholes, uncontrollable weeds and unnecessary litter.