S2, E3 | Where There's Smoke, There's Fire

Pressing the upper halves of her fingers into the perforated top of a cardboard container stuffed within a cabinet just over her sink, a blonde woman in a knitted, beige sweater removes just one paper packet from within. Whilst the outside of her home appears dark beneath the cloudless night sky, the inside of the cosy and out-of-the-way cabin the lady inhabits is kissed with a calming, orange glow from the dim bulbs that line her home.

Removing a ceramic mug from a rack of dishes off in the corner of her kitchen countertop, the woman tears open the flimsy packet and gently removes the tag that first meets her eye. Whilst the increasingly-loud sound of whistling emanates from atop the stove just a few feet away, the woman sits the packet of tea leaves within her cup and drapes the adjacent string over the edge, letting it sit over its rim as she redirects her attention elsewhere.

Relieving the home of the intense scream that the metal pot of water gives off, the cabin’s owner carries it over toward her drink and gracefully tips the container over. With a dense and audible wobble, the boiling liquid within falls beyond the lip of the woman’s kettle and allows a steam to permeate through the air. Spending the next few minutes situating herself in the corner of a quaint and bookshelf-lined den, her thin rectangular glasses reflecting flames of candlelight in their lens’.

Returning to her beverage, the woman takes the handle of her mug between her curled index and middle fingers before retreating to the sanctity of her nook and sinking into the vintage leather-upholstered seat with a softcover book in hand. For a few minutes, the peace that she’d prepared her evening for is left entirely intact, undisturbed by the chaos that commonly waits until sundown to unfold, the words on each page of her book catching her eyes as if they were mitts to a ball.

Guarded by the cameras, storm lights and alarm systems that modern technology affords her the comforts of, the author’s mind wanders as far away from the harrowing underbelly of the world that she leaves the grime of at the door. Instead, her eyes carry her into the embrace that comes with the fantasy thriller that reads throughout the novel, her mind filling in the gaps that the simple, black text the narrative is constructed through leaves in its wake.

*knock knock knock*

Looking toward the doorway whose wooden entrance had been removed from the hinges long ago, the quiet, blonde civilian directs her attention toward the sound that beckons for her answer. Removed from her reading, the woman gently folds the corner of the page she’d left off upon and sets her novel upon the cushioned seat she leaves behind, an unexpected visitor being amongst the least-anticipated things she’d come to be met with, let alone at such a late hour of the evening.

Curious, the woman marches on to the deadbolt-locked entry and peers through the small hole at its centre, looking through the glass divider between herself and the figure on the other end. Pulling her head back, the reader stares at the ground without a clue over the reasoning behind seeing who she finds on the other side, trying to come up with one on the fly before ultimately deciding to answer.

Pulling the home’s large entrance open before resting the palm of her hand against the knob to a screen door just beyond it, the woman steps onto the front patio of her home to address the man that she finds. “How can I help you?” the soft-spoken lady inquires, watching her visitor’s hands unfold from his lap whilst one extends toward her.

“Good evening, miss... I’m Avon King” the man introduces himself, breaking the ice that the woman meets with less fondness than he’d hoped for. “Yeah, I know who you are” the woman replies, crossing her arms in a gesture that refuses the man’s handshake, her reservations presented to the man without an explanation, “how can I help you?”

Taken by surprise at the woman’s initially cold-appearing demeanour, Avon lets his hand fall back toward his side as he answers the question. “I was told that I might be able to find someone to help me at this address” the author explains, noticing his opening line fail to provoke any change upon the homeowner’s aloof presentation, “are you Leah Bowers?”

“Who told you that?” the woman immediately asks, leaving no room for a breath to be taken before meeting the man with her rebuttal. Still put off by the lack of warmth that is presented to him for reasons he cannot understand, Avon stammers over his first attempt at replying before offering the best he can manage. “There are these people back in the place that I’m living in- Remedy Hills” the writer confesses, trying whatever subtleties he can present to make himself appear less-imposing.

“They’ve been wearing these smiley face masks and-” he continues, only for his response to be interrupted by the secluded soul’s refusal, her back immediately turning toward him as she retreats to her home. “I can’t help you” Leah replies, letting her arms fall as she quickly pulls open the screen door, only this time in an attempt to enter the home, offering no explanation for anything involving her end of the interaction.

“Please, they wouldn’t leave me alone” the man proclaims, blurting out whatever he can with the hopes that it would prevent the woman from getting far enough to close the door, not wanting to physically block her. Seeming to strike her interests just enough to keep her second half from stepping back into the home, Avon watches as the woman he’d made an unannounced visit to the cabin of turns back, keeping quiet to allow him a chance to continue.

“They’ve spent weeks tormenting my wife and I. They’ve killed people, they’ve given me disgusting gestures- they’ve tried everything to make me go away” Avon explains, his words appearing to strike an even greater chord with the person whom he visits. “But no matter what they did, they couldn’t get me to leave. Instead, they showed up at my house last night and gave me a DVD” the author continues, looking into Leah’s eyes as her silence allows him to proceed.

“There was someone who filmed a video. It had parts of an interview that I did with Oprah thirteen years ago and then him saying something about how it let him think of me with an open mind” Avon carries on, not sure what else to make of it, “he said some shit about Remedy and that I might be able to help solve some mystery about the killing. He gave me this address and said a woman named Leah Bowers might be able to help answer some things for me.”

Expending all the information that he’d arrived with, the mid-thirties writer leaves fate into the woman’s hands, hoping that what he’d been able to provide her will be enough to convince her to assist him. Staring at her guest in silence, Leah takes a few seconds to process what she’d been told before looking off into the treeline that surrounds her home, using it to lend her a peace of mind to make an on-the-spot call.

Hanging her head with an audible sigh, the woman takes an additional few seconds to accept the decision she’s come to before briefly looking toward Avon beyond her door. “Come back tomorrow” she finally concedes, stepping into her home without uttering any further word as she vanishes into the home, allowed to do so without rebuttal by the author that she leaves behind, his eyes wandering into the distance of the property in an attempt at making sense of the interaction.

= Remedy Hills is created by Zachary Serra, all rights to the series belong to Zachary Serra and his entity of Pacer1 from the start of Season 1 onwards =

“You two talked this morning?” Anne inquires, curled up on one end of the King couple’s chesterfield with a cup of cocoa in hand, “how did that go?” Puckering her lips as her eyes wander off toward the distant corners of the home, Penny contemplates the certainty in which she can answer the question, considering the concerns she’d shared with her husband and the conclusions that they’d come to.

“I think it went well” the woman confesses, nodding in an approving fashion as she looks back toward her colleague, “we’ve always been really good about the way that we feel and wanting to work with each other.” Retaining her voice so as not to impose, the registered nurse that occupies the home’s sofa as a guest holds onto her mug with both hands whilst she watches on from across the furniture.

“We both weren’t happy with how things were going and we’ve decided to set a better course for ourselves” Penny continues, lifting the mug that she wields like a prop toward her lips. “And you’re happy with that?” Anne inquires, waiting to receive the reply she’d interrupted her friend’s sip for.

“Yeah, I am” the healthy-spirited wife replies, watching the woman across from her nod at the answer, “I said a lot of things that I shouldn’t have, and I’m just glad we can move past them. Others might not be that lucky.” With a squint, Anne gradually pulls her head back as she sits with the conclusion that her co-worker had come to, the pause that she proceeds with not taking long to be noticed by the homeowner.

“What?” Penny wonders aloud, knowing there to be something at the forefront of her acquaintance’s mind that she just can’t identify. “Well, you know you did have a reason to say those things, right?” Anne responds, speaking as if the comments she makes were rooted within unarguable grounds, “he got attached to that girl really fast for something that was merely platonic.”

“Can you blame him?” Penny retorts, begging the question for her well-educated friend to defend, “we practically came into this town with targets on our backs. The two of us pretty much gravitated toward whoever was willing to give us the time of day.”

“Yeah, but still... It doesn’t strike you as odd?” Anne doubles down, looking past the truth behind her co-workers' defence in favour of poking deeper than the surface level explanation. “If I were dating a guy that got attached to a girl that fast, I’d be thinking something was up” the single nurse confesses, not appearing reluctant to admit such as she leans her left side against the sofa’s cushion, “maybe you got cross a line just a little, but it’s not like you didn’t have your reasons.”

“I wasn’t right to accuse him of having an affair just because he made friends with someone who was nice to him” Penny calmly responds, defending her stance without certainty over what she’s meant to argue for, “it’s Avon. He once befriended the guy who delivered mail to our old home because they both had the same hat.”

“Well, do you know he wasn’t having an affair for sure?” Anne rebuttals, presenting her friend with the possibility as if the wife were a fish she was dangling bait in front of. “I’m not saying that he was cheating, but think about it for a second... Do you know for sure that they weren’t sleeping together?” the nurse again doubles down, holding firm in the inquiry that she levies, “this wasn’t just some co-worker of his. This was a cute, young, sweet librarian we’re talking about.”

“No, it’s a cute, young, sweet librarian that you’re talking about... I’m not taking part in whatever conversation you are” Penny laughs, not dismissing the woman’s dialogue entirely, but poking an innocent fun at it to imply her lack of real thought she affords it, “I trust my husband. I don’t need any more certainty than that.”

“I’m just saying... I wouldn’t be so quick to believe someone without something to prove they’re telling the truth” Anne concludes, shrugging her shoulders as she takes a sip from her mug, allowing her acquaintance to let the intrusive thoughts win. “Have you ever wondered whether or not that could be a reason why you’re still single?” Penny queries aloud, watching as her guest’s eyes take toward her immediately, the slightly-audible sip she’d begun to take coming to a sudden halt.

Coming off more reserved and less playful than she’d initially taken part in the conversation with, Penny looks to her friend from the corner of her eye as the pause commences. For a few seconds, the nurse lets her beverage’s warmth rest against the top of her lip as she takes the comment to heart, following through with the rest of her gulp before lowering the mug.

“Anyway...” Anne proclaims, jutting her face to the side as she swipes hairs out of her face and attempts to direct the discourse elsewhere, “the guy from the bar we were at sent me a text last night.” Lifting her eyebrows as she quickly tries to meet her friend’s efforts in disregarding the comment that leaves a sour taste in her mouth, Penny nods as she leans toward the coffee table a few inches away, leaving her warm cocoa atop a coaster.

“He said that guy you were talking to- Poe- couldn’t stop talking his ear off about you” Anne carries on, the comment being one that flatters the happily married woman. “If I weren’t in a committed relationship, I’m sure I’d be flattered” Penny responds, only for her attempt at dismissing the newest line of dialogue to fall futile upon her friend’s assertion.

“He’s not trying to fuck your brains out. From what I’ve heard, he just thinks you’re a pretty cool person” Anne explains, assuring the woman that her intentions aren’t malicious in nature. “Why would he think that? We barely got much time to talk before the hospital called us in” Penny replies, not seeing the sense in the comment that her friend takes advantage of the opportunity in.

“Which is a perfect reason to give him a call and agree on a time to grab coffee together or something!” the nurse cheerfully concludes, watching as the wife rolls her eyes and sways her face away. “Again, I’m not suggesting the two of you hook up! You said it yourself- not a whole ton of people are too interested in giving you and Avon the time of day” Anne proceeds, finally finding ground with the woman that she slowly convinces to prop up an open mind.

“He seems like a nice guy! Why pass up on getting to know someone that could become one of your closest friends someday?” the nurse continues, again trying to convince her friend to take the offer up for the opportunity that it provides. “Hey, if you can trust Avon to make friends with other girls, then why wouldn’t you be able to trust yourself to make friends with other guys?” the devil-on-the-shoulder beside Penny questions aloud, raising a question that’s rather hard to oppose.

|

“I only stayed in Remedy for a few weeks. Most of my nights after the first three were sleepless” Leah confesses, sitting in one of two chairs that face each other, her guest occupying the other. “It started with tapping on my motel room’s window. On night five, it escalated to slamming on my door and yelling at me to let them in until someone drove them away” she continues, speaking to a crowd of one just as captivated as hundreds of others would be, “it was anything to get me to leave.”

“Why didn’t you?” Avon queries aloud, not finding the sense in staying put that he had been able to bear the weight of. “I was there to write a story. I was there to learn about the people and the town that all of this happened in” Leah replies, not taking long to formulate her answer, “it was going to take a lot more than just keeping me from going to sleep in order to deter me from getting what I’d come there for.”

Reserving his comments, the author that the homeowner hosts folds his hands atop his left thigh, the leg it’s attached to draped over his right. “Unlike you, I wasn’t planning on moving in. There was no property or roots that I was laying down that kept me from running off. All they needed to do was get me out of a room and never come back” Leah explains, shaking her head as she stares at her hands, their coupling in her lap allowing the thumbs to spin around each other.

“But I was headstrong. I was younger and I thought I could take on the world. I figured it was obvious that the people didn’t like me and this was their way of showing it” the soft spoken soul continues, not holding back much in the name of keeping secrets. “So I carried on. I always had questions about the case and the way it was handled, so- for the short time I was there- the police station pretty much had a visit from me pencilled in” Leah jokes, bringing herself a slight grin.

As quickly as the smirk appears, it vanishes from the secluded, woodland-residing reader’s face who’d just wanted to spend the prior night with a cup of tea in hand and a good read to spend the hours before bedtime with. “At the time, there weren’t a lot of cops that had been on the case. Most of them had retired or gotten promoted to higher positions in a precinct outside of Remedy” she speaks, “there were still a few, and most of them were really pleasant when we talked.”

Having lowered his notepad to the ground roughly ten minutes prior, Avon keeps his lips pressed together and ears as open as his eyelids are, trusting himself to remember the details without the need to pull himself from the line of communication to jot down some bullet point. “They’d ask about family or friends or how my stay in Remedy was. They were very polite and well-spoken” Leah recalls, only to come across a display that still sits with her all these years later.

“Whenever I’d bring up the case, they’d get a lot less open to talking. They were still polite. They never waved me off and ended our conversation, but they also wouldn’t really answer questions” the one-time writer explains, “it’s something that’s hard to hide. When people are totally willing to be open and honest, you just pick up on those moments when they’re just... not that open anymore.”

“I know exactly what you’re talking about” Avon reassures, watching the woman’s eyes take toward him as she pauses, almost as if she were quietly holding out a hope that he knew what she was trying to put into words. Reassured, Leah nods to herself as her eyes take toward the window that her sofa had been propped at the base of, staring at the cloudy skies that appear both above and through the treeline that surrounds her entire property, rain oddly not present.

“I knew enough to realise that there was something more that I wasn’t seeing. Even if I’d ask questions about how investigation went or what came of it, I’d still get some of the same non-answers I always would” Leah carries on, crossing one leg over another as she leans to her side. “When I started to see that I wasn’t going to stop getting the non-answers, I just started trying to see if I could bait the cops into saying more than they should’ve” she confesses, “I knew there was something.”

Unintentionally matching the host’s posture, Avon leans toward the opposite side of his question’s subject as he waits for her to continue speaking, a momentary diversion taken in her recollection. “By this point, the people that had been keeping me up started to get a lot less easy to deal with” Leah admits, disheartened to concede the strength of considering herself above their bothersome tactics, “one night, they’d light a bag of shit on my doorstep. On another, they’d key my car.”

Disturbed, the woman tries to brush off the less-pleasant memories in favour of getting through to what her guest had come looking for. “I’d throw out things- names or people or suspects- that I’d pick out from the crowd. I’d ask about their involvement or what happened to them as if they could’ve had anything to do with it” Leah proceeds, a deeper squint carried in her eyes as her mind reaches one particular instance.

“Then there was this one time where I walked by a woman that just wouldn’t talk to me and decided to use her that day” she remarks, gesturing dismissively at the thought whilst it runs through her head in real time, “so- mid conversation- I decided to ask what her involvement in all of it was. And...”

Falling silent, Leah’s face takes toward the ground as her already mostly-steady spirits take a descent, her soft voice becoming even softer than she’d presented it to be for her guest. “It didn’t go over well” the woman confesses, taking her line of sight back to the man that sits across from her as she speaks, “all of a sudden, I was met with him asking me about who’d mentioned her and why I was looking into what her role was and... it was all just so confrontational.”

Starting to lean forward in his seat, Avon’s barely-noticeable forward-direction centres itself upon his interest in hearing the woman’s claims through. “Who was the woman?” he wonders aloud, watching the hesitation to continue saying anything more than what she already had begins to come over the seemingly hidden-away once visitor of Remedy Hills.

“Apparently someone important enough for those freaks in the smiley face masks to leave a severed finger on my doorstep that same night” Leah responds, her eyebrows furrowing as her breaths grow less easy to take. “I packed up the few things that I had, left my room, got in my keyed-up car and got the fuck of that town as fast as I could” the woman admits, her comments both intriguing her guest and being carefully tucked aside, “I left a note that said ‘this was a mistake’ and never went back.”

Clearing her throat, Leah looks into the eyes of the man that occupies the opposite chair as he parts his lips again, his mind latching onto the most vital piece of information he’s heard thus far. “The woman that you asked about... What was her name?” Avon inquires, suddenly beginning to believe that the goose chase the smiley face group’s video had sent him on may just have legs of its own to stand on.

With her bottom lip extending farther than the one above by the slightest margin, Leah takes her free hand and gently sweeps her hair aside. “Dana Whitehead” the woman confesses, answering the question she was asked with both honesty and reservation, “she was the Chief of Police then, and as far as I’m aware... She still is.”

|

“I don’t see anything noteworthy about that woman at all” Beth responds, having been kept awake for hours now with the reading of the hardcover novel her friend had pieced together thirteen years prior, “aside from the fact that she was mentally deranged, I don’t care to know anything about her.”

“It’s not her that you’re supposed to latch onto, it’s what she did” Harlington corrects, leaning toward the ground to gently rest the novel upon the ground just beneath his chair. “It wasn’t the crime that ever fascinated people, it was everything that didn’t make sense. Her being an oddball, the way she killed herself, the way she strung the cops along, it was what she did” the man furthers, trying his best to explain the case as coherently as he can manage.

“What does it matter? Does it change what she did? Did it bring back who she killed?” Beth challenges, not knowing what she’s meant to get out of the novel as a whole, “why should I be interested in what a terrible, sick and twisted woman did enough to care?” Letting a more casual smile come over his face, Harlington leans forward in his seat whilst his prisoner watches on, wanting a genuine answer to her question.

“The book wasn’t meant to give you a reason to be fascinated, it was designed to explain why all of that fascination came about in the first place” the man explains, speaking to a party of one that is only quiet for the sake of hearing out her answer. “People are slaughtered in ways even more brutal than what Whitney Merrimack did to her family every other day, but no one cares. No politician comments on them all, there aren’t national holidays over them” Harlington carries on.

“What people are fascinated by are the gory, gruesome pieces that get highlighted in the headlines. There’s a reason no one talks about what Whitney did anymore... It’s just how she died and what her final days were like” he continues, still failing to find much in the way of common ground with his prisoner. “People flock to this story for the same things that people flock to Remedy Hills for” Harlington clarifies, “they don’t care about the murders... They care about the mystery.”

“No shit, Sherlock. Anyone with half of a brain in this town knows that” Beth responds, growing tired of being led down one train of thought after another, “tell me you didn’t sit me down for hours to read me a book to come up with the same conclusion I could’ve spent three seconds to make on my own.”

“No, I read you the book to show you why there might be a method to keeping a mystery as a mystery and never letting the questions die” Harlington responds, watching the woman’s reservations remain intact, though her posture- in spite of the rope that holds her back- adjusts slightly. “With how small Remedy Hills is, did it ever cross your mind that it might not be too difficult to piece together who was responsible?” the man wonders aloud, finally seeing a change in Beth’s demeanour.

“The crime was heinous, it was sadistic, and it made national headlines” Harlington argues, trying to lend credence to his claims with as much sense as can be taken from them, “don’t you think there’s a chance that- with all the attention the little town from Massachusetts gathered- maybe there’d be people who wouldn’t want the mystery solved?”

“What are you saying?” Beth interjects, wondering aloud the question that sits upon the front of her mind, presented with the possibility that her years of personal conflict may have an answer worth buying into. “I’m-” Harlington replies, only to widen his eyes upon the slamming from above that interrupts him, face taking toward the floor above as repeated knocks against his front door ring out.

“Who’s that?” Beth questions, watching as Harlington quickly leaves his seat and looks toward the higher level, waiting for a repeat of the knocking that doesn’t take long to meet his ears. “I don’t know” the man confesses, holding his hand toward the woman in hopes of holding her off from speaking for a moment.

“I promise that I’ll answer every question you have when I get back if you just stay quiet, alright?” Harlington queries, making for the bottom-most step on the bannister that leads to the ground floor. “I know it’ll be hard to think of me as anything less than the guy that stalked and kidnapped you, but if you’d just trust me...” the man pleas, watching as the woman stares at him without certainty over how to react, “...you’ll see that it’ll be worth it.”

Without saying anything more, Harlington climbs the steps that lead from the basement and makes toward the front of the home, holding out his hope that all will be fine with patience and confidence. Interrupting a fourth set of knocks by opening the door he’d rather gracefully pull in than watch be kicked in beneath the might of a boot.

“Good evening” a young and charming officer remarks, his elder colleague standing alongside no more than a few inches away, “I’m detective Beau Donovan- this is my partner Jake Mansoor.” Lifting his eyebrows, Harlington rests his arm against the front door’s frame as he takes part in the end of the conversation he’s meant to prop up. “Greetings, gentlemen” the decent-appearing resident of the cabin responds, “is there something I can help you with?”

“Yeah, we were actually holding out the hope that you’d let us check around your home” Beau responds, continuing to uphold his charming demeanour so as not to act in outright opposition to the cabin’s tenant, “we had an inmate escape prison a few nights ago and believe he could be in this area.”

“This cabin was built for that convict prior to the man’s conviction. From our records, the deed was never signed over to anyone other than him” Jake adds on, taking over for his partner before any hot-headed action can be taken. “Rico Martinez? Yeah, he didn’t need to sign it over to anyone. I bought it off the town once they repo-ed it when they took him in” Harlington recalls, playing his story as best as he can.

“How’d you manage that?” Beau queries, poorly hiding the fact that he doesn’t buy the story for anything it’s worth. “I used to work for him. I was one of his drivers” Harlington responds, pulling his palm away from the door’s frame before crossing his arms whilst standing in the middle of the doorway, “you oughta know about that. You lot wouldn’t stop bringing me in on suspicions until the town got all up in arms about him.”

“And now you just live here... All by yourself?” Beau questions back, his partner accepting that the faux-pleasant attitude that is presented will be too difficult to tame for what it’s worth. “Well, you get the occasional lonely lady at a bar just looking for a little bit of love, if you know what I mean?” Harlington tries to charmingly play off, mocking the presentation that the younger officer provides him with, earning a grin from the youthful cop for his efforts.

“Anyway, he’s not here. I guess that- if you really wanna take a look inside- you’re gonna need to grab me a warrant first” Harlington responds, watching Beau’s head hang just slightly as he takes displeasure in the refusal. Having expected this, the officers lift their hands as a show of surrender and retreat from the property, their backwards stepping allowing them to return to the cruiser they’d driven up to the property line with.

“Alright, then. Since you asked so nicely, we’ll go grab that warrant for you, sir” Beau remarks, nodding toward the homeowner as he points to the man’s direction, “we’ll see you soon, alright?”

“I can’t wait!” Harlington smiles back, faking the same pleasantries as the officers do before returning to his home and waving toward the authorities as he closes his door, sealing himself within the property with bought time. “You could’ve been a little less straightforward with that uptight, stick-up-your-ass, shit-eating grin of yours” Jake groans, lowering himself into the driver’s seat whilst his partner responds.

“You know just as well as I do that he’s got something going on in there. If we didn’t have to plead our case to the judge for a warrant- we’d be in there by now” Beau retorts, fastening his seatbelt into place as his partner begins driving off. “Besides, I feel like I did a pretty good acting job” the young cop sarcastically adds in, only to receive a smug frown from the older cop he turns to look at.

“It could use some work” Jake confesses, meeting his partner’s humour with a quip of his own before taking to the main road, forced to go about their business in the lawful manner whilst the feeling like a race against the clock has begun wraps itself around the officers like a lasso.

== Remedy Hills ==