Page 1 of The Situation Ship
If you’re reading this, then I’ve died (hopefully of old age). I feel like it’s only right that you should know my story, not what the tabloids spun about the last twenty-six years of my life. Below is my unfiltered and uncoerced confession for the events that occurred in 2024. Whether you believe it or not is up to you. After all, who would believe the confession of a murderer?
‘Murder’ is such a harsh word. Is it really murder when my aunt, Martha Roe, took my life first? But this is a confession, not a justification for my actions.
On that fateful night, I waited for my aunt –the Hollywood legend Martha Roe – to complete her nightly routine, comprised of colourful pills washed down with a glass of vodka. Of course, she liked to pretty up her drinking by using a martini glass with an onion instead of an olive. She said ‘one’ helped her sleep– one being a bottle, between you and me – and went to bed.
Being a night owl, I started playing my favourite Beethoven piece on the grand piano. (Martha hated it when I played late. She said it gave her headaches.) I waited for her to appear at the top of the stairs with that pinched expression – a look I share, along with her cosmetically perfected nose and jawline.I was her mirror image, if forty years younger. I used to have a little bump on my nose that I got from my dad and a dimple in my chin like my mum. Both were long gone now.
But when Martha looked over the balcony at the top of the stairs to scold her darling niece for playing during her ‘quiet time’, I wasn’t sitting on the stool in front of the Steinbeck. I’d used the back stairs that was only meant for the maid and kitchen staff to catch her at the top of the stairs.
Thirty minutes after her routine, she was more than a little unsteady, and when she heard me approaching, she tried to strike me for sneaking up on her. She missed and lost her balance; it could have been her low kitten-heeled slippers on the perfectly cream carpet, or the ‘one’ drink.Who’s to say?
When I saw the terror in her eyes as she started to fall, I realised it was the first time that I’d seen her scared. She reached out for me to help her, but how many times had my pleas for help gone unheard? I repaid the favour. I let her fall.
It felt like she was falling forever, but then I heard the sickening relief of the thud as her body hit the marble floor of the foyer. I walked down the stairs, lingering an extra second or two on each step before I reached her.
As a pool of blood formed at the back of her head like a crown, she took her last breath, and it felt like I took my first.
Not wanting to linger, I dashed for the phone. I howled, real tears pouring down my cheeks as I pleaded for help from the 999 operator. I wouldn’t want to disappoint her with a bad performance– not after all the acting classes she’d paid for. I cradled my aunt’s body to my chest, making sure to get just enough blood on me.I did the chest compressions as instructed (though the bent angle of her neck told me there was no coming back). I had to make sure the autopsy showed how desperately I’d tried to save her.
In the hospital, the moment the doctors confirmed she was gone, I sank to my knees and prayed for them not to give up. My aunt always said I’d never be an actress, but this performance would’ve earned me an Oscar. The officer at the hospital offered me a ride home, and I accepted, sitting numb in the car, not uttering a single word.
When the investigators were gone, I cleaned up the blood. I didn’t want to traumatise the maid; my aunt had done that enough while she lived. I snapped the locks off the food cabinets in the kitchen, finally ending the diet she’d had me on for my latest tour. Also, I didn’t want those calling to offer their condolences to notice. The house was clean and quiet, but I still feared that she would come out of her room and scold me for killing her. I considered burning the house down, but that seemed too dramatic. Selling it and all her possessions was a much better idea.
I said I wouldn’t try to justify my actions, but you could argue that if she hadn’t tried to strike me, she wouldn’t have lost her balance and taken that fatal tumble. Did she fall? Did I push her? I can’t quite recall. You can make your own deduction.
You might be asking yourself why I am writing this letter.
The problem with fame is that someone will write my story one day. They’ll talk about the tragic loss of my aunt, how I couldn’t bear to sing after her death, and how I started acting to pay homage to the Queen of Old Hollywood, who so selflessly raised me after my parents tragically lost their lives. This letter will set the record straight.Martha Roe was a monster, and since I killed her, she raised one too.
This letter will remain buried in the lockbox of an overpriced bank vault in Switzerland. I’ve left instructions for it to be delivered to a news outlet upon my death. My only comment on the above matter is that I won.
I’m free.
Poppy Roe
Isaiah wanted to strangle whoever had outed his little investigation into Poppy Roe to Captain Roberts. He suspected it was the blood technician he had asked to look at the blood spatter again at the latest murder scene. Not many liked having their work questioned.
He wouldn’t have minded the lecture if he hadn’t been so hungover. He didn’t remember all of his friend Axel’s bachelor party, but he’d undoubtedly remember this hangover. Even running his hands through his dark hair hurt.
“Three murders all connected to Ms Roe; I don’t know how you can’t see it,” he said, cutting off his captain as she started to turn purple. He wasn’t sure if she had breathed since he’d closed the door to her office.
Captain Roberts took a deep breath, confirming his suspicion. “Detective Rivers, you’re wasting time and resourcessearching for a connection between cases that don’t exist,” she said, rubbing her forehead.
“A choreographer who worked with Ms Roe only weeks before she was found strangled in her studio,” Isaiah began, sliding the first file onto her desk.
“Ms Devin had dozens of clients, and the place was ransacked. It was a B&E gone wrong, and there was no evidence that Ms Devin was a target,” the captain said. “The case is still open and not your responsibility. You know the other officers don’t like it when you butt in on their cases, and I’m sick of hearing about you sticking your nose in where it shouldn’t be.”
“I wouldn’t stick my nose into any case if they stuck theirs in the right places,” he said under his breath, earning himself a scowl. “The housekeeper ate so much her heart gave out at the Claren Hotel. That’s not normal. She was found in Ms Roe’s suite.” He added the second file to the first.
“Ms Roe had checked out several hours earlier. No one saw them interacting with each other, and there was nothing suspicious on the cameras.” Roberts leaned back in her chair, shrugging away his suspicions.
“What about her driver two weeks ago?” Isaiah asked, crossing his arms.
“Mr Fogerty was hired by Ms Roe’s management agency from an independent chauffeur company. He drove her for three nights for her concert in Dublin. There is no evidence that she was connected to the car accident. Let me say that again– it was ruled an accident, not murder. He lost control of the vehicle due to his high blood alcohol level.” She shoved the files back towards him, but in his gut, something wasn’t right.
“Three murders following Ms Roe! Unless she’s the grim reaper, this is too much of a coincidence,” he argued.
“Enough, Isaiah. I think you need some time off. You just finished giving evidence for the Phoebe Fletcher case, and you’re running on smoke. Starting to see things that aren’t there.”
