Ingrid’s Journal

My head is spinning, the autumn leaves fall around, on my waist, over my head, on my hair, as I try to see clearly at the moon hidden behind the big oak trees. A movement below my feet catches my attention causing me to stir, a failed attempt. I hear the soft strums of guitar as I feel a tightening on my feet, like they are tied together by a thick rope and I get pulled….out of my sleep, sweat beads on my forehead.

“It happened again?” My husband John asks, giving me a side hug as I sit upright on our bed. I just nod my head and take a quick sip of water. My eyes fall on the journal on the side table. Ingrid’s journal.

“Maybe you should take yourself off the case.” He suggests.

I want to run from the case with all my might. The entries in the journal detail Ingrid’s troubled childhood.

As the daughter of president elect Valeria Barrera, Ingrid was held to a high standard. She had packed schedule starting at 4 am where she would practice tennis with her coach. She won various medals as she was quite the athlete. She would then go to school and stay in the after-hours to learn music and dance. She would come back home and assist her mother with various political affairs.

Valeria wanted to create a legacy and Ingrid obediently gave in, despite her hatred for politics.

Her father, the famous filmmaker Arthur Berrara, saw her acting talent and wanted her to star in his film. Despite her mother’s protests he got her to act in a small role in his friend’s low budget comedy film that became a box office hit. This is when her parents truly grew apart. Poor girl, she blamed herself.

“Isn’t it obvious she killed herself? I mean, you said she was a typical troubled teen.” John says, yawning and lightly strumming his guitar, trying to calm me down. Ever since this case got assigned, I developed a bad habit of bringing my work home. It has an effect on John too.

“Go to sleep. I’ll work upstairs in the office.” I say, kissing him on the forehead. I take the journal with me to finish the last few entries.

16th October 2023

Mom threw coffee at her assistant today. Steaming hot coffee. The stress is turning her hair grey; first time I ever noticed. Mom told me to be honest if she ever looked bad, but she always looked beautiful in my eyes, but some days, she is uglier than the evil stepsisters of Cinderella, with a disdain for anyone with a net worth below her.

Dad will accompany me for an audition today, which probably got her riled up. Or maybe it’s the fact that elections are a month away, and she knows she will lose.

Dad doesn’t understand that I’m not interested in starring in cute and childish rom-coms. I’d rather become a popstar. Dad doesn’t particularly like that. He thinks movies make the most money. Chase success, he says. Music career is too uncertain. I know the real reason is because his ex-wife is a globally famous popstar. Ever since then he refuses to play music over the radio.

My audition went over quite well. I’d probably get the part, as dad said he put a word in for me. And the producers are his friends. But I went to a concert after the audition, and it was the BEST THING IN THE ENTIRE WORLD.

The dancing in heels, intricate choreography, belting of notes, interaction with fans, it’s all so thrilling.

I asked dad once again if I could do that and he said never in a million years.

Anyway, I have a meeting tomorrow. I think it will be my way in to the music industry.

***

She seems so hopeful. Why would she want to die such a painful death? Only one entry is left now.

I take a deep breath and turn the page to read the final entry.

17th October 2023

I finally met him. He’s so famous and yet so grounded. After talking to him through Instagram DMs for months, I finally got to meet him.

He’s just as handsome as he looks in his Wikipedia page. I went to his studio and messed with the electric guitar. I showed him my vocal range. I wrote a song for the first time. He’s an amazing guide.

He said he loved me for the first time in person. We’ll meet tomorrow near Willow Lake for a photoshoot.

Love you John.

***

I close the journal trying to catch my breath as I feel a sharp pain on my back.

“It was you.” I tell John.

“I kept telling you to get off the case.” He says, his voice monotone, devoid of any emotion.

“Why? Why were you going after her?” I ask him.

John bends down to meet my eyes, his eyes feel hollow and his actions are sudden. I’ve never seen him move like this.

“I lied to her. It was never about the music. Her mother asked me to do this. Sympathy is a feeling you just can’t shake off. She will win now.” He says with a smirk. “Besides, how do you think I bought this house for us?”

I get a hold of her journal on the table and hit his hand. The knife falls on the floor. I grab it in a swift motion and run downstairs to the front porch. All the while I can feel the wetness at the back of my shirt as the blood pools and drips down my back on to the wooden floor.

I run out in to the woods and fall to the ground. I turn around and look up at the sky. The moon is partially covered by the huge oak trees; the leaves are falling in the gentle wind.

This was the warning. If I stay here, he will find me and kill me.

I keep running and running till I get lost in the thick of woods. John was bankrupt when I met him. He owed a lot of people money. He was planning to sell off his studio. I remember paying for our meal the day he shared this news with me.

I promised to marry him and be by his side. I never cared for money. After supporting him for years with my money, he finally became a successful music producer, winning multiple awards and getting many accolades.

His greed never stopped. I always chalked it up to his difficult poverty-stricken childhood. But John is way beyond that now.

“I knew he couldn’t afford the penthouse that incompetent asshole.” I say loudly, screaming in the dark woods as the pain in the back gets worse. A flashlight shines on my face and I look at it dazed.

“Caught” John says, smiling.

I run once again with him following me closely. His hand brushed against my shoulder once but it only made me quicken my pace. I walk up to Willow Lake. I fall to the ground, catching my breath. I’ll meet the same fate as Ingrid it seems. If only I could grab a weapon before I came out here.

“Let’s go back to the house. We’ll talk about it this.” John says slowly pulling his gun out. He doesn’t want to shoot me here because he knows it will leave a bloody mess as evidence. I wish I didn’t read my cases to him.

“Don’t do this. Please.” I beg him. He moves closer with the gun in his hand when soft guitar strums echo through the woods.

“Did you call someone for help?” He asks pulling my hair. I yelp in pain and his grip is suddenly gone. He’s tossed to the side. I stare at him, unsure of his reasonings to step away from me.

“There’s a bloody trail from our home; all through the woods and now at the place where you killed that kid. They’ll find you, whether you kill me or don’t.” I say, my breath gets fainter as I see him get up on his feet, trying to balance himself. I lost too much blood and have no energy left to fight him.

Suddenly, the strumming of guitar gets louder, followed by shuffling of feet from the woods. I keep my gaze on John who seems dumbfounded as he stares into the distance. The sounds get louder and closer and suddenly a young girl pushes him into the lake.

She looks eerily similar to Ingrid. She turns around and looks at me. She is Ingrid. How is she alive and okay?

She turns back again as John tries to swim out of the water. She gives me one last look before jumping into the lake herself. John tries his best to stay afloat but his face gets pulled under water and his flailing hands disappear soon, as if he was dragged underneath by someone.

With the little energy I have left, I fall on my back and look at the sky. The bright full moon completely visible now. My vision is no longer blocked by any trees. The moon in the night sky is shining as bright as the truth revealed to me.

***

I walk to the press conference with confidence in my stride.

“What was it that helped you solve this murder when everyone was so convinced that it was a suicide?” A young journalist asks me giddily.

“She was full of hope, as evidenced in Ingrid’s journal. I felt that she would never even think of harming herself.” I say, smiling at him. All the other journalists flock in and bombard me with their questions but I sail through them like a breeze. This has to be the easiest press conference I’ve ever done. But one question catches me off guard.

“What happened to John.” Someone asks.

I stay quiet for a moment as flashes of Ingrid standing over John comes to my mind. His final moments where he’s dragged under water runs through my head.

“He killed himself by jumping in the lake. He was completely exposed and had no will to live.” I reply back.

“But why would he choose to slowly drown when he had a gun.” One of them asks.

I put my shades on and grab my purse, getting out of the chair, ready to walk out of the conference.

“That’s a very insensitive question. He was her husband.” One of my colleagues says to the crowd. I walk out into the hall trying to regain my composure.

“My next film will be inspired by the tragic sacrifice of my daughter. I want it to serve as a warning for people who get close to individuals with great political power. As her dad, I had no idea her mother was a ruthless and scheming sociopath.” Arthur says on a morning talk show playing on the television. The hosts of the show give him a sympathetic rub on the back, as if he was a victim.

All he’s doing is profiting off of his daughter’s death. How do these people not see that?

“Do you hear the guitar strums. It’s soft. So melodic. Don’t know where it’s coming from” The female host says, awkwardly laughing as she hands a tissue to a sick looking Arthur. He holds his chest like he can’t breathe properly.

I stare at the TV and get a weird eerie feeling. As if Ingrid’s chapter is not closed yet.