What’s Your Name? Letter L

Today’s ‘L’ name randomly selected from the first ‘L’ page of my naming book is:

Lacey: A surname meaning ‘from Lassy in the Calvados region of Normany’. Used as a masculine or feminine first name (Old French).

Lacey

Owen stood on the balcony, staring down at the dark patch that stained the concrete below- blood.  The police tape had been left in place, but he paid it no heed. They had rang him in the early hours of that morning to tell him that Lacey had jumped to her death whilst holidaying with friends. Not suspicious- a suicide- a troubled drug addict. He flew to Spain on the next available flight, needing to see for himself, to play detective if need be.

Just the thought of Lacey balanced on the thin railings, contemplating ending her own life, was a hard pill to swallow. He tucked his hands back into his pockets to avoid touching anything. Disturbing a crime scene was the last thing he wanted to do. It was undoubtedly a crime scene. He knew it as soon as he arrived. Lacey would never have committed suicide; knowing what it would have done to Owen would have stopped her. He was sure of that much.

Ryan placed a hand on his shoulder. “Come on, mate. It’s no good for you to be here. It’s not helping-“

He rang his best friend as soon as he got the call. Ryan was at his house in mere minutes with a holdall and booked flights. They had known each other since childhood. Ryan knew Lacey as well as anybody.

“Don’t touch anything. This is a murder scene.”

“If she was in trouble she’d have called you? Did you check your voicemails? What about your email? ” asked Ryan.

Ryan’s reluctance to accept another scenario irritated the crap out of Owen. Why would he even come if he thought it just a suicide?

“Of course I checked them,” Owen snapped.

Ryan held his hands up in submission. “Sorry, silly questions.”

Owen’s eyes found Lacey’s keys instantly. His heart missed a beat as he crossed the room, and his hands shook as he picked up the ornamental keyring. “Not silly,” he whispered. “She would have let me know.”

The miniature Russian doll felt cool against his sweating palms. “We’d write messages to each other as kids and tuck them inside this.” He showed Ryan the keyring. “I didn’t know she still had it.”

He unscrewed the top and retrieved a small, rolled up piece of paper. Ryan was at his side in a split second. They both caught their breath as Owen unravelled the note.

The black scrawl spelt out three words: ‘Don’t trust Ryan.’


All written works are the property of K.J.Chapman

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