Ria was a magnificent-looking 2-year- old girl. She had a bush of curly, nut brown hair, large, bright blue eyes decorated with curly eyelashes like sprinkles casting painted shadows over a cupcake, to be comically poetic, and a perfectly chubby and cuddly, petite physique.

It wasn't just her looks that stood out to serve her glory ....even though she was, in a sense, barely old enough to be considered a toddler. She was very active and intelligent for her age; always curious, high-spirited, merry and friendly.

She could walk, or rather, wobble, a mile in a day, to visit the neighborhood houses - alone - to great distress of her 33-year-old mother, Linda. And she knew quite a few words, phrases, clauses and sentences already, though her first included: "I love you, Daddy," "friendly," "yummy," "adorable," "jelly," "kitty," "panty," "aunty," "lily," "thank you," and "forever, or always."

Like when Ria requested Linda to offer her another spoonful of cotton candy cake dough ice cream and her mom responded with the reminder "to say thank you," and Linda then told her, "Always." She may "always" have another spoonful of cotton candy cake dough ice cream. Or, as Ria put it, "cottie doughy cake cold cweam."

She loved bubbles and play dough; splashing in the mud, having the kittens and puppies take a bubble bath with her, making mud cakes, roasting marshmallows and a ton of other fairly normal 2-year-old girl activities.

Ria had a dad and two elder siblings. Her sister, Amanda, was 13, and Andrew was her 11-year-old big bro. Amanda tended to be rather short-tempered with the toddler, but only when she "made a silent invasion of" her royal bedroom, by which she responded to fend her off verbally.

But otherwise, she rather enjoyed her little sis' odd jokes and quirky made up tales, like the one about floating in marshmallow castle ships to the fruitful land of Canaan and then ending up dying by drowning on the way. Or: "water overdose" the way Ria put it.

Amanda was only 5 inches shorter than her 5'7 mother, who was beautiful with her long, straight, black tresses, pale complexion, and bright green eyes. Such things made her - Amanda - rather arrogant and patronizing to Ria at times, but she never used her superior size, speed, strength and intelligence to hurt her. She resembled her dad, Paul White...
red-brown hair, hazel brown eyes.

Andrew was a gamer and though he spend far more mall shopping trips, group homework projects, beach vacations, movie nights and mealtimes with his family than other kids his age, he seldom had much to say.

He was very patient, rather soft hearted and also broad minded. Neither of the two "big" kids were prone to sad emotional outbreaks, neither was their father; though the same could probably not be said about Linda.

Paul, the father, was a real estate agent and didn't work far from home. His personality was like a more aggressive and dominant version of Andrew's. He was 5'11, thin, serious, and more dark headed than Amanda.

Linda was a painter working from home - who used to be a high school Math teacher. But she wasn't fond of housework and often preferred tea parties and charity champaigns with her many female friends over her hobby of art. She was a (mostly) solid, responsible and kind-hearted person.

And, then one day, the tragedy came.

It was 9:16 a.m. on a sunny Friday morning. The kids were at school, of course; Paul was two blocks away advertising another new home, and Linda was chatting with a friend in the street, two houses away from her own.

Suddenly, an astoundingly loud and piercing scream echoed through the street.

Linda and the friend, "Aunt Violet," as the kids liked to call her, snapped their heads like hurricane swung chandeliers
in the direction of the sound, amazed.

"Good soul, what is that cry?" Aunt Violet asked, concern seeping into her pupils. Her face had turned white.

"I don't know...maybe it's just the plumber who saw another snake. Got a clogged toilet this morning. It's all thunder and earthquake when he sees some harmless little worm. I do declare, he's got the nerves of a girl worse than I!"

Linda laughed, waving the matter off with a white hand of which the fingers were coated in wine red paint. The momentary flash of panic was gone from her eyes.

But suddenly, there was a grayish cloud in front of the sun....Literally. And it was black around the edges...very wide edges.

Aunt Violet wasn't completely reassured. Her red hair and almost purplish eyes were freckled with worry, but she poured herself a cup of cold chocolate and adjusted her sunglasses...Linda of course, didn't notice her eyes' expression due to the shades.

"So, how is it going with that Math grade of Amanda's?"

They continued to talk for about 5 more minutes before Linda remembered the muffins in the oven. "I really need to go...sorry, Violet. We'll chat again tomorrow."

"All right with me. I've got laundry to do, anyhow."

She hurried off home, while Violet watched her with a slight frown between her eyebrows, downing off a glass of wine.

When she entered the front door, she noticed, after a few seconds, that it was unusually quite in the house. Almost...she hated to say it... eery.

"Matt! That toilet done, yet?"
she called patiently.

"Yeah. Clean as a washed table top, Ma'am!" She could hear his normal merry whistle now, and sighed in relief.

Linda quickly rescued the chocolate muffins before they could die of carbon monoxide toxicity. "Is Ria around here somewhere?" she enquired casually.

No answer. She turned the corner. The toilet was clean now...not just of stink, defecatory products and toilet paper ... but of the actual toilet cleaner, Matt, also. He didn't stay to pick up his pay and the usual chocolate muffin or donut as reward, which he usually gobbled down greedily as though his appetite remained unaffected by toilet cleaning duties.

"What is going on here?" She whispered.

The house had become dark...literally. She noticed that many doors and windows were closed that hadn't been just before she left. The kitchen wall clock ticked loudly...slowly...silently.

"Ria! Ria...." she called softly, patiently.

No answer. No sound.

"Ria! Where are you, my dear?"

Linda clutched a sweaty palm to her chest.

Then she began searching the house. There was no sign...no toy, no sound, no note...no piece of clothing, no hair... no blood.

Upon entering Linda and Paul's bedroom ... she saw it.

In the middle of the polished wooden floor ... a tiny object. It looked like that large brown stuffed dog of Ria's lying on its stomach.

She ran to it and rolled the object around blindly. It was Ria...and the girl was dead!

Stiff, white faced, silent ... but at least her eyes were closed like one of her sleeping dolls'. And it wasn't just her face ... her entire body was ghostly and poisoningly white.

Linda collapsed into a heap, flung her head into her hands, and started to sob hysterically.

When she could finally stop crying, she stood up shakily, picked her dead c
daughter up in her arms, and laid her face up in the middle of their red velvet king-sized bed. She sprinkled rose petals from the pot standing on her bedside over the body, crying again, softly.

She called the police after another couple of minutes of helpless grieving.

The police sergeant, Chris Matthews, and his constable, Randy Wallace, didn't know what to say when they saw the tragedy struck, devastated woman.

The constable merely placed a hand on her shoulder and offered her a glass of sugar water, which she drank gratefully, while the sergeant, his medical examiner, and his forensic scientist set hand to the plough.

They, of course, immediately noticed a few things Linda did not. Firstly, about the state of the room, after noting that there were no marks, blood, poison, gas, sweat or other liquids on Ria's fully clothed body - including under her clothes and in or on her shoes - and thus, she most likely did not die a violent death ... except for a small, light red spot in the center of her forehead.

"Seems to be caused by object pressure," the constable noted. "No fingerprints or DNA on any surface," was the forensic scientist's remark(a 23-year-old blonde woman.)

"That window's open," the sergeant pointed out. "Was it?"

"No ... I was away. When I back ... you know."

"It could be to rid the room of the poisonous odours, assuming the killer used any. Or the heat, if he killed her by causing heat stroke. Or any smell associated with him, so we'll have to look out for that.

The fingerprints covering the window are older than the shoe prints on the floor, so he must have opened it before getting rid of her, indicating that the killing was probably done by a silent method, otherwise it could be heard through the open window....so suffocation, along with poisoning, according to her skin tone, is most likely not a possible murder method."

"The other windows and doors in the house are all closed....and I...I did not..." Linda muttered through her refreshed tears. "And I...I remember something now. I heard a scream while I was talking ... to my friend outside. I couldn't distinguish the gender or age of the voice."

The sergeant's eyes lighted up...a little.

"When and how long were you gone? How far away? Was there anyone else in this house?"

"The plumber ... Matt Andrews ... I can give you give his phone number. He's gone now, but he was still here when I came back. Didn't wait for his pay like he usually does, though I suppose that doesn't necessarily mean anything."

"It probably does. And this friend you were talking to...? Gender, name, address? Phone number?"

Linda stared at them from beneath het birds' nest of wind-and-tragedy -damaged hair....utterly shocked, and confused. "Violet is my best friend...! And she was with me the whole time I was talking to her...when could she possibly have...?"

"How long did it take you to get back to your house?" the sergeant demanded, but his eyes were calm.

"I...I had to rescue the muffins from dying..." She laughed, shakily. "Sorry... I'm used to talking to my toddler a lot. I meant burning. So I looked at my watch ... it took me about ... 2 minutes. I always remember details related to ... well, bad things."

"Do you have a husband? Other children? If so, when will they be home?"

"My husband, Paul White, is at work as usual. Well, he's self-employed, technically, but whatever. The kids ... Amanda and Andrew ... are at school."

"Give me his phone number. I'll call him," Chris replied shortly, reaching out his hand as if to take her phone.

Linda looked surprised, but then obeyed - after a little hesitation. Her hand palms were still clammy, her eyes were blood shot, her heart was pounding with grief and she felt cold inside. Alone ... forlorn ... and devastated.

He found the contact: "Hubby & Dad" - and dialled it instantly.

The phone rang for a few seconds. Then a few more. Then another couple of moments. Still no answer.

Then he called the principals of Amanda's and Andrew's schools, after getting their phone numbers from Linda, of course, explaining that it was a personal homicide case and the children simply needed to be let out. The principals, after recovering from the surprise, immediately answered that their parents could come to pick them up.

"Is it possible that Ria ... could have
.... committed suicide?" Linda breathed, as if talking to the walls her eyes were fixed on senselessly.

"Sorry ... but how old did you say the girl was?" Sergeant Matthews asked, blushing unexpectedly in embarassment. "And what's her name again?"

"I never mentioned it." Linda laughed humourlessly. "Her name is ... was Ria and she was 2 years old."

About 15 minutes later, the dad, the brother, and the sister arrived. Their footsteps - while echoeing down the hall - were very slow, soft and hesitant, as if they were either in shock or afraid of the sight that was to meet their eyes. Andrew entered first ... then came Paul; then came Amanda. She stood a lot smaller than normal.

Linda noticed the look on Paul's face first. His head hung low, he was white to the face, but his eyes, under slightly raised brows, were fixed pon the body of his dead daughter.

Andrew's mouth hung open stupidly; he was drooling in shock. His eyes were glued to Ria's body, but not her face, for some reason. Then he stared at the rose petals surrounding her in what seemed like a mixture of awe and horror.

Amanda followed a few steps behind him, standing directly on the opposite side of the bed on which Ria lay. She came to stand just behind her brother, with a hand placed on his right shoulder. On her face, there was an expression that was not of shock, horror, anger or surprise, but a silently accepting, yet sad look with which she met her fate.

© @elsastrauss7