Among the noise

His ribs convulsed with every breath as he sat on the edge of the bed with his hands on his knees. Sweating profusely he tried to stand but rocked his way back to the bed. He felt groggy, a headache, was waiting for him along with the clutter of a new day. He stood and stretched his shoulders, twisted his neck and walked towards the studio.

He'd find himself wandering around like a desert wind, without a place to rest. He tried to stay busy with something other than work- he knew that it was a bad idea to be enthralled by the case, but he couldn't help it. He'd try to write to only stare at a blank page. He'd try to surmise words but found none. He'd scroll through a few poems that he wrote for Dona.

Her favourites were the classics, from all the best responses to love, Robert burns poem "A Red, Red Rose". She described Harry as a man who knows no boundaries. He needed a pen to scribble something in his notepad; he looked through the drawer and found her laptop. He took it out without hesitation and switched it on. He didn't know what he was looking for but decided to check her history. First on the list was "The Anderson Case". At first, he paid no mind to the surname while reading.

It seemed like an ordinary crime report until he started questioning it. Why was the last thing Dona searched, a crime report? Maybe he's paranoid; it could be nothing. Until he remembered, the note Dona left in the car. Her jarred handwriting sprung out to him.

"Tony Anderson."

He shook his head and leaned back into the chair. He had already ruled Tony out as a suspect. And yet here he was, finding his surname in Dona's computer.

He scrolled down the article, finding out that there was an apple farm in a small village south of France. This farm used to hold art events and classic car shows. He felt sluggish while reading it, scrolling right to the end where the headlines were urgent. The farm is still standing but, as a ghost of its former self.

"It was either a family heirloom, or it was difficult to sell after the incident"."

He decided to do a little research on Tony; by checking his social media links. He clicked this icon, that advert, another blog and found nothing. He had no Facebook, no twitter, no Linkedin account. He stopped to think. Maybe, he's private. He remembered the conversation Tony had with Dona.

"I come from a family of struggling artists."

He bit his lip hoping, the pain could jolt a memory. What else did he say? Does art take sacrifice? Of course, it does, it is very time-consuming. He went back to the keyboard and needed more information on the killer. He needed anything that could distract him from the fever of grief and anger he felt. He caught his breath and stilled his movements. He got up, scurried for his keys and went to the garage.

He opened the boot of the car and found a duffle bag. After his small strife with Tony; he remembered being dropped off. Tony exited the vehicle, retrieved something from the boot and walked part of the way. Harry rested his hands on the back and leaned over the bag, puffing. He didn't remember seeing him walk away with anything. And yet he did retrieve something; it just wasn't his bag.

Harry hesitated and opened the zip. He thought of rummaging through it and throwing everything on the floor but decided not to. He was still groggy, trying to find his feet and holding on to his sanity.

The first objects in his wake were a few purses. He noticed that there were more objects underneath them. He took the first bag and opened it to find an array of drivers licences, each from a different person. His fingers were stronger than his legs and; he felt as though he was about to faint. They were all woman's purses, woman's licences and one caught his eye. From the stark lighting in the room and the tiny ray emitting from the crack in the wall, he couldn't believe his eyes.

Dona.

In a small photo that didn't align her features as they should have-was smiling at him.