Chapter 2: Modus Operandi

I chortled at his hilarious fallacy. "What do you mean? If that's the logic you're using then every mystery and crime writer is a criminal and every paranormal writer is a ghost." I try to calm down as my sides still ache from all the laughter. My heart was beating between my ears in fear. What if they actually throw me in jail? I shake my head. It's hard to prove a guilty person guilty as it is, imagine how much harder it would be to prove an innocent one guilty. Movies and TV shows are an exaggeration. While it happens I can't imagine I'd be so unlucky to be one of those people who are thrown in jail while being innocent of the crime.

He picks up my book and opens up to a page highlighted by a neon green sticker. "Chapter seven, page thirty-two. 'I attached the aquarium pump to his artery and drained all his blood." He read and eyed me before his eyes returned to the paper in front of him. "He watched in horror as blood splattered to the ceiling above him. His own blood which dripped back on him. With wide eyes, realization hit him as his life began slipping out. I wonder what he thought when he drained the lifeless bodies of those innocent girls. He filled them with a mummifying agent to turn them into porcelain dolls. I'll make him into one so as to preserve this crime. Next time someone wants to prey on innocent little girls they'll know what's coming for them." he takes a long breath and his eyes set back on me. He gave me the 'explain that' look before throwing the book at me.

I can't believe he's using this as evidence. Even if the victim was killed in the same way, that proves nothing. 'What's that supposed to prove?' I blustered, my voice rising with frustration. 'It's not as if I'm the only one who writes about murder. It's a common trope in fiction. Just because a scene from my book bears some resemblance doesn't mean I'm guilty. This is absurd! Are we now supposed to hold authors accountable for every fictional death? If that's the case, then I'd be in good company with every crime novelist out there!' The absurdity of it all made my head spin. How did my creative work become twisted into something sinister? Not only that but how did end up taking the blame?

Rain pulls out three photos from the folder she was holding, placing them in front of me on the table. She pushes the three photos closer to me. "The victim was found two days ago. He was completely drained of blood using an aquarium pump. He was found in the tub of his own home. 'X' was drawn in red paint on his forehead. The flowers Jasione and bird's-foot trefoil were scattered in the pool of blood."

In the first picture there is a man with skin as pale as paper. Blood from the tub trickled through the dress shirt he was wearing like chromatography paper. His eyes were open and glassy. Soulless.

He was surrounded by yellow and purple flowers. The purple flower, Jasione is a symbol of justice. Most of them had begun to wilt but the vermillion blood pool accentuated their hues. The yellow bird's-foot trefoil means revenge in flower symbolism.

It was a real-life manifestation of the scene in my novel, every agonizing moment and precise detail mirrored with a chilling accuracy that sent shivers down my spine. The killer had crafted this gruesome reality from the pages of my story as if my words had become a blueprint for murder. Each element of the crime, from the meticulously planned sequence to the hauntingly familiar setting, blurred the lines between fiction and reality, leaving me to grapple with the terrifying realization that my imagination had unwittingly become a sinister guide for someone else's dark desires.