The Foster's Folly
A peculiar gloom lingered around herring’s bookstore as Cross entered the crime-scene, where scent of old paper and dust masked the stillness of death. Behind the counter, Mister Herring slumped over his desk—an oddly serene mask against the violence of his end. Though the coroner’s initial report suggested natural causes, Cross knew better: that calm betrayed premeditation. Cross inspected the surrounding, savoring every detail- Claire—his niece and foster daughter—stood nearby, her lips curled into a frown and her mascara smudged with tears that rolled down in muffled sorrow; a piece of paper on the dead man’s hands- It was from The Count of Monte Cristo. The passage spoke of vengeance. Cross picked up the blood-speckled paper, “You say he was your foster father?” “He was my uncle- the only family I had. He took me in when no-one else did” "Sorry for your loss miss, I assure you the person behind this would surely be brought to justice” Cross offered his sympathies ove...