The Murder of Adelaide Sunflower Part 4

Where do you draw the line between murder and friendship?

Dawn took a moment to himself before knocking on the door of the Master of his Rank. He stood at the end of the hallway, gathering himself in the fresh night thinking about them. They both had gone through the Knight Academy, got into the Core together, and Dawn had been there at his wedding. He wasn’t sure he wanted to charge him with infidelity, and then maybe … murder.

                He knocked on the door to Gawain’s office.

                “Yes?” Gawain’s voice boomed from the other side. Dawn opens it, stepping into the large office, seeing the shield of Gawain’s family on the wall beside the shield of Whispering Oaks. A flag of the Realm was on the other wall across the room. Dawn glanced at Gawain’s family shield with the sigil of Thornwood around the lion of his family. The lion held a skull in its mouth with a clock in the center of the skull, both of its hands were on midnight, and the thorns of the Kingdom surrounded all of it.

                “Dawn, what do you have for me?” Gawain asked with the candles burning on his desk.

                “Not much,” Dawn said, sitting in the chair in front of his friend. “I spoke with all the kitchen staff, a few Knights, one Hood, and a Bard to find nothing.”

                Gawain sighed, sitting back in his chair with a scowl resting on his face. “We have to find this killer.”

                “I know, I know,” Dawn said. “We can’t have someone so close to the Emperor killed on the Estate, and I will still try to find who did it.”

                “What about the squirrels who were under her father during the War?” Gawain asked.

                Dawn raised an eyebrow and said, “A dead end.”

                “Are you sure?” Gawain asked.

                “I am,” Dawn said, crossing his legs. “The Hood who would look into the matter for me found nothing.”  

                Gawain growled a curse under his breath. “Well, thanks for the report, but don’t give up on this.”

                “I won’t,” Dawn said, not moving. Gawain stared at him, about to order him to leave to get back on the hunt but keep his order at bay.

                “Is there something else?” Gawain asked.

                “I do have a theory,” Dawn said, smirking. “Nothing had been stolen from Adelaide’s house, which tells us this wasn’t a thief.”

                “Right.”

                “But the door was kicked in,” Dawn said.” So, Adelaide either didn’t know the killer or shut the door in their face.”

                “Okay.”

                “I think kicking the door in was an act of rage,” Dawn said. “The killer loss control of his emotions attacking Adelaide, but my question is, what was the conversation leading up to the attack?”

                “We’ll have to ask the killer,” Gawain said, moving in his chair while Dawn’s cold eyes stay on him.

                “Indeed, we will,” Dawn agreed. “But what if the killer knew Adelaide and she had a secret against him. One which could cause the killer a great amount of trouble to the point of losing their Rank.”

                Gawain sat up with fury flowering in his dark eyes. He put his paws on the desk, trying not to let the rage pour out over them. He tried to keep his anger under the mask of his friendship. “What are you trying to get at?”

                “Why didn’t you tell me?” Dawn asked, sighing. He let the disbelief and disappointment wash over him quickly. He never put it away because Gawain had been a friend for so long.

                Gawain sat back.

                “Did she try to blackmail you?” Dawn asked, the steeliness of his eyes softening. “Is that why you killed her?”

                “I didn’t kill her,” Gawain snapped. “By the Angels, I didn’t kill her.” He slammed his fists on the desk in a growl at his friend. “How dare you.”

                “You know how this looks,” Dawn said.

                “It doesn’t matter how it looks,” Gawain said. “I didn’t hurt her.”

                “I asked around,” Dawn said. “You were breaking it off with her.”

                Gawain dropped his eyes, sitting back in the chair. “I made a mistake one night, and I couldn’t make another one.”

                “Does Faye know?” Dawn asked.

                “No, and she can’t know,” Gawain looked back at him.

                “You went to see her that night?” Dawn asked.

                “You already spoke to the Night Watch, haven’t you?” Gawain asked.

                “I did.”

                “Then, you know.”

                “You were there, but why?” Dawn asked.

                “To tell her I couldn’t be with her anymore,” Gawain said. “I love my wife.”

                “How did she take it?”

                “Upset, heartbroken,” Gawain said, “but alive. You have to believe, Dawn, I didn’t hurt her.”

                “You were the last squirrel to see her alive,” Dawn said. “You know how this looks.”

                “I didn’t do it,” Gawain said, hiding his face in his paws, hoping not to cry.

                “I do believe you,” Dawn said, thinking back to what Gawain asked him to do back in Adelaide’s house and the hate in his eyes. He wanted to find the squirrel who killed her and make his death slow and painfully. If he killed her himself, then that hate wouldn’t be true. He had been around Gawain longer enough to see his real emotions. They were real.

                Gawain looked up at him with an emotionless smile. “Thank the AllFather.”

                “I still need your help,” Dawn said. “I need to know if someone hated her or not.”

                “Who could hate her?” Gawain asked.

                “There had to be someone,” Dawn said. “Anyone.”

                “I don’t know.”

                Dawn sighed and asked,” Doesn’t the kitchen sometimes give food away to the poor?”

                “Yeah, they allow some of the lower squirrels into the Estate for food at night sometimes,” Gawain said.

                “Are there any reports of something going wrong when Adelaide did it?” Dawn asked, kicking himself for not thinking about it before.

                “Now, that you mention it,” Gawain said, standing up to find a report from a few months ago and giving to Dawn. “Some street squirrel tried to steal some knives from the kitchen, and Adelaide caught him.”

                Dawn took the paper looking over it, and seeing the squirrel in question was still locked away, but Dawn would still go see him for answers. He stood up, looking back at his friend, never being able to see him in the same light again.

                “Dawn?”

                “Yes, Gawain, this will stay between you and me,” he said, walking out of the office. But the friendship is over.

Author's Note

If you had made it this far, then I appreciate it, and before you start to tear my work apart (which doesn’t bother me too much), let me explain something. The most common critique I see is about my spelling and grammar. It is an understandable critique, and I do not blame you for pointing it out. After all, spelling and grammar are the tools in which we use to craft our work, like a paintbrush or a chisel. The artist must know how to use these tools well, but like an artist who has a tremble in their hand's somethings will never be perfect.
My tremble in my hand is caused by my dyslexia. It is something, no matter how much I learn, study, or work on, it will never go away. It is the reason you will find a good bit of spelling and grammar mistakes in my work. I ask you to keep this fact in my when you are about to write your critique.
Also, I feel the need to point this out, this website is like a journal for me. A messy journal I used to work out problems in my stories or to simply warm up before digging into my novels. I do not hire an editor for the work here. I do not spend hours and days pouring over these stories to make them perfect, that energy is saved for the project I plan on taking to market. Everything on this website is my world-building exercises or sketches for other projects.
I do hope you enjoy my work, but this website is not a publishing house for me, and it shouldn’t be for you either. Something to keep in mind as you write your critique.