The Search for Answers Continues
By: Marcus Andrews
As Taylor Hanson in under continued watch in the hospital, police across the country are at work, trying to find any persons who may have wished harm on the singer. Several tips have come in since news first broke, and police are already beginning to take action. Hanson, a well-respected musician, maintains that he has no knowledge of who could have put the poisoned wine in his dressing room.
The internet is proving to be of assistance, officials say, as it has given them several leads, one of which is a private Facebook group titled “Taylor Hanson Must Die.” Details of the group’s content and the identities of the group’s members are currently being withheld.
“Oh shit.”
Viv’s eyes scanned the latest article, the computer screen’s glow bathing her face in an eerie white hue as she sat in her otherwise dark living room. The sun had risen over New York City hours earlier, but the shades were drawn and the door was deadbolted. Ever since the rumors—the internet murmurs—had started the night before, she’d hidden herself away, gaze fixed on the screen.
She hadn’t fallen back asleep, didn’t even feel tired, and her pulse was throbbing loudly as if demanding to be heard due to the adrenaline now coursing through her veins.
It had started. Really started.
The phone lying beside her had been used for hours early that morning until its battery had burned her hand from being engaged for far longer than usual. Now, she needed it again, and after punching a few buttons to privatize the call, she dialed the number scrawled on the Post-It stuck to her monitor. She hadn’t dared put the number in the memory of her phone.
“Yeah?” a groggy voice asked once the phone had rung upwards of seven times.
“You’re sleeping? Are you fucking kidding me, Brielle?”
“Who is this?”
“It’s Vivian,” she sighed, trying not to get frustrated, “It’s on the news now.”
“So? That doesn’t mean anything. You need to stop freaking out.”
“No, you need to start freaking out,” Viv murmured, huffing when a beep sounded in her ear. She pulled back the phone to look at the screen and saw that another call was coming in—one that definitely needed to be included in their conversation, “It’s Molly. I’ll bring her in.”
“Vivian, did you see it?” were the words Molly uttered in panic as soon as Vivian had turned the call into a three-way one.
“Of course I did, and Brielle’s on the line, too, but she’s been sleeping,” Viv said accusatorily.
“Oh my god, you’re so rude. What did Taylor see in you, anyway?” Brielle grumbled, not sounding any more awake than she had when she first answered the phone.
“No gag reflex,” Viv stated, prompting Brielle to laugh.
“Nice,” she giggled, and from the rustling the other two heard, it was evident that she had finally gotten out of bed.
“Can we not talk about that right now and get to the point?” Molly asked, her voice tight, “We are so screwed.”
“But neither of the three of us was there last night, so they’ll never really suspect that we had anything to do with it,” Brielle said, the smile on her face evident in her voice.
“That should make me feel better, but it doesn’t,” Viv stated, “Everyone’s talking about what enemies he might have had, and that’s when they mentioned the group.”
“They did?” Brielle asked.
“Yes, you would know that if you hadn’t been sleeping,” Molly interjected.
“Vivian called me at five in the morning. I never go to bed until one, so excuse me for being tired,” Brielle defended, but they both ignored her and moved on.
“That’s why we’re worried,” Viv explained, “Early this morning, I really thought we’d be okay, but not now. If they’ve found the group, it’s only a matter of time before-“
Loud knocking sounded on Vivian’s door.
“What’s wrong?” Molly asked after they had all sat on the line in silence for several seconds.
“Someone’s at the door,” Viv whispered.
“Don’t answer it,” Brielle said quickly, finally sounding worried.
“Miss Carter, it’s the NYPD. Open the door,” a deep voice boomed through the thick wooden surface. She just sat where she was, frozen as she stared in horror as the door vibrated from the strength of the pounding. “We will break down the door if you don’t come out on your own.”
“Guys, stick to our story,” Viv said with forced confidence.
“Vivian, what’s going on?” Molly asked.
“It’s the cops, and if they’re here for me, it’s only a matter of time before they come for you. Stick to the story!” she repeated before hanging up, leaving Brielle and Molly alone on the line. They both sat in shocked silence for almost a minute before Molly spoke.
“Do you think Taylor’s okay?” she queried, her voice cracking. Brielle sighed.
“Why do you even care? He’s an asshole, and we all agreed that he needed to pay for what he did to us. Now he is. That was the agreement.”
“I’m scared,” Molly admitted.
“We don’t even know that’s what the cops were at Vivian’s door for,” Brielle said, but as soon as she finished, knocking started on her own door.
“Chicago Police! Open the door!” they yelled.
“Oh god…” Brielle squeaked, “Stick to the story, Molly!” The line went dead.
The phone in Molly’s hand felt heavy, like she was holding a brick in her palm. Time seemed to slow down, and as someone finally knocked on her own door, the sound seemed muffled, like it was happening in someone else’s apartment, not her own.
“Who is it?” she asked as she found herself standing right in front of the door. In her shock, she hadn’t even realized she was walking towards the noise.
“LAPD, open up!” Her hand, the one that wasn’t holding her phone, unlocked the door and pulled it open. Standing in the hall were two burly policemen, both clearly meaning business.
“Can I help you?” she asked breathlessly, her voice failing her. The outer reaches of her vision were blackening and she knew that she was well on her way to fainting.
“We have some questions for you regarding the attempted murder of Taylor Hanson. Will you come to the station willingly or are you going to make this difficult?” the taller of the two cops asked.
“I’ll come,” she managed, turning to her right to pick up an overnight bag from the floor, one she had packed as soon as the news had broken in the early hours of the morning. She’d done that just after calling her lawyer.
“Expecting us?” the other officer asked.
“I’m a smart girl. I knew there was a chance.”
“Is that a confession?”
“Absolutely not.”