Forgive Me by Kateri Stanley (love letters to the dead txt) 📗

as Facebook, MySpace or YouTube, but it was doing well from a statistical point of view. The request was to write an article to advertise his business.

Yawn. This isn’t my field at all. I’m not into marketing. She usually wrote meatier, darker stories with interesting backgrounds and peculiar lead characters. Just like her last assignment, the tragic life of Charles Libby. The project had taken three months to complete and she was travelling back and forth to New York, and conducting research and interviewing in Los Angeles. Charles Libby had survived an abusive family who also happened to be practicing Satanists. His story was a chronicle of good morals. He’d pulled through some pretty horrific events.

She scanned the Titan News Facebook page, scrolling through as she sipped her coffee, laughing under her breath at some of the comments. There was the occasional ‘bitch’ swirled into the mix with people participating in virtual punch-ups about her work.

Stripe picked up her phone and dialled the number on the Virtisan website. “Hello, can I speak to Isaac Payne?” A young kid of eighteen or so answered on the other end. “Yes, I’ll hold. I’m Stripe McLachlan.” She laughed when she heard their judgement. “Yeah, it’s a weird name. You should ask my parents why they gave it to me. I’m an investigative journalist from Titan News. Mr Payne asked for me personally. Thank you.”

As she waited, she tapped her mini Batman figure with the foot of her pen. Even though she didn’t find the subject of Isaac Payne particularly lip-biting, it was a merit. She’d been requested by an outsider because of the texture of her articles, following what Carla had said, she was getting her name and services out there in the big wide world.

Her call filtered through to the CEO, and their conversation exchange seemed pretty rudimentary. Isaac Payne was polite, and appeared to be nervous which she found a little odd especially as he’d requested her help. They’d agreed to meet up at his home in Washington as he wasn’t working at the main office. It would be an hour’s drive, but Stripe could handle long journeys. She was trained for it. Not a juicy story, but it’ll pay the bills.

Another email flooded through to her screen, and her heart sunk when she saw it.

Interview request – Night Scrawler documentary

Dear Miss McLachlan,

I hope this email finds you well.

My name is Max Lewis. I’m a writer and an independent film maker. I’m currently shooting a documentary about the infamous murders back in 1996 and 1997. I was wondering if I could interview you-

 

Stripe stopped reading and flipped back to the main menu. It’s been years but it still hurts. She clicked on the bin icon hovering over the email and watched it disappear from her screen. She logged out of her computer and texted Carla that she was off on the job. If she needed her, she was available by phone. Then she disappointed her mother, sending an apology text that she wouldn’t be able to attend her tea party and unfortunately couldn’t meet the attractive doctor who was going to make an appearance.

She jabbed Isaac Payne’s address into Google Maps and switched on her audio book. She liked to drive to the sound of a warm voice. A nice story usually made the journeys fly by. It was imperative to be surrounded by language, crafting and moulding her linguistic skills was a constant fixation in the world of a journalist.

She arrived at Isaac Payne’s home. He lived on the heel of the Washington State Park reservation. As she parked up, she gazed at the endless sea of trees which stood towering and intimidating. The sight before her was breath-taking. This place feels lonely. Why would anybody want to live here?

She understood its therapeutic attraction. It was an ideal place for a weekend retreat, for a company to participate in team building. She couldn’t live in a place like this full-time. It reminded her too much of the cabin she used to stay in with her parents when she was a kid. Stripe lugged her equipment out of her car. Don’t go down there. You don’t want to roam, not now.

“St-Stripe McLachlan?” a voice drifted from behind her.

She turned, gazing up at Isaac Payne, the person who’d asked for her.

Isaac was tall, statuesque even. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he worked out or took part in athletics. She could see the light touch of muscle under his crisp blue shirt, it matched the colour of his eyes. His dark brown hair was short and shiny. He clearly took pride in his appearance. She observed him, a wave of familiarity washed over her for a moment. She wasn’t sure where it had come from.

“Hi there, I’m Stripe. It’s nice to meet you.” She walked up to him, holding her palm out. It was always good to make the first gesture when meeting clients. “Sorry, I was just surveying the beautiful surroundings. How come you live so far from your office?”

“This place helps me think,” Isaac replied. “I don't want to be constantly reminded of computers and a concrete jungle when I want to relax.”

“I agree. What made you want to live here particularly?”

“I like nature.”

“You must be drowning in house bills.”

“It’s worth it for the view.” Isaac smiled. “Please, come in. Do you need help with carrying your equipment?”

“No, I’m fine, thanks.”

Isaac welcomed her inside, graciously taking her jacket. He was making a good impression, most CEOs were old, with life experience etched around their eyes, especially the people Stripe had encountered.

He offered her a coffee and she asked where she could set up her recording materials. He moved to the kitchen and Stripe was taken back at the interior layout. It matched the pristine representation of perfection, like the inside of a home furniture catalogue. The place was immaculate, and she saw the laptop on the work surface.

“You and I must think alike,” Stripe said. “I like