A Sforzando and Amaya production







Name:Clarissa Valley
Age: 24
Appearance:



It was the oddest feeling being dead, if asked Clarissa would have compared it to her childhood summers when she would close her eyes and float in the lake close to the family's summer home. That was if anyone asked, but since she was dead no one bothered to talk to her. The frustrating part was that she couldn't remember how it was she had died. Murder. She knew that much since she had been standing in the room with her mother when the FBI agent informed the aging woman that they believed her red haired daughter had been another victim of a recent serial killings.They could only assume since all that had been found so far was her car and enough blood that the owner would have died with out a transfusion. Said daughter had to take that as fact since she her self could only remember what had happened the last morning she was alive.

Clarissa and her long time best friend and roommate shared a small loft apartment three blocks from their college. They had moved in together during their second year despite the fact that both of their parents lived in the city they were attending school in.The move had been about freedom and becoming adults, also Abby found it too hard to enjoy college parties when she had to go back home to her parents. That morning the small blond had been going on and on about some party her boyfriend the frat boy was throwing at his house. Like always Clarissa had agreed to go. So after classes were over the two got ready at their own apartment planning on Clarissa driving since Abby would most likely stay with her current boy toy. The red head had changed in to her favorite white dress with the gray strips and baby doll cut.

Now as she stood in that same dress, her feet bare and her dyed red hair falling down her back in the middle of the FBI headquarters. Her lips were twisted in to a scowl at all of the unsuspecting agents walking around not paying attention to her. True she knew she was dead and by all right shouldn't even be here but she had watched enough TV to know that she hadn't moved on because her killer was still out there.See television does teach you things. Stopping her bare foot in frustration she screamed as load as she could, who would get mad at her anyway they wouldn't hear her, " I hate being dead!"

Name: Agent Scott Malcolm
Age: 27
Appearance: Malcolm


Agent Malcolm sat in his office, the door closed, going over some paperwork. It was boring, and he was having a hard time concentrating, but it had to be done. He rested his forehead on one hand propped up on the desk as he read over the reports. In the background, classical music drifted up from a small boombox on the filing cabinet behind his desk. He could never work in complete silence. With the work he did, silence was always strange. It gave him too much time with his own thoughts, which always turned to recent cases he was working on. Classical because it usually didn't have any words to it, and when it did, it was almost always in another language. He didn't really care for the music itself. It was just noise, something to block everything out.

A recently closed cold-case was the number one thing on Malcolm's mind. He kept bringing out the file and looking through the evidence. It was a serial murder. He popped a pill his therapist had prescribed him and spread the pictures of the victims across his desk. Seven young red-headed girls between nineteen and twenty-six. Each murder had been three weeks apart. But after the last one, the murder of twenty-four year old Clarissa Valley, the murders had stopped. It had been eight months since the last murder and the trail of clues had run dry. Every time they felt they had been close to catching the psycho, something happened that completely dashed all their hopes. And none of these girl's parents could have closure now because they had closed the case.

Malcolm hadn't wanted to go to therapy. It was actually everyone else's idea. He had been getting increasingly short with everyone and when he wasn't snapping at someone for not refilling the coffee machine, he was moping in his office. He hadn't wanted to go to therapy, but they wouldn't stop bothering him until he agreed to go to one session. When he did, he found it did actually help...a little.

As he scanned the photos of the victims, Malcolm's eye lingered on the last. Why had she been the last one? What happened to the murderer? Why? What were they missing? Malcolm closed the file and put it back into his filing cabinet so he could finish his actual work. When he was almost done, he heard someone scream. He couldn't make out everything they said, but he was certain he heard "hate" and "dead." He turned down the music to listen, but the scream was not repeated. He shrugged. If they want me, they'll come and get me. At last, he finished his paperwork and got up from his desk. Piling all the sheets into the manila folder and tucking it under his arm, he left his office.

[[Whoo! That was a lot of work. I'm not used to writing so much in an RP. I definitely need to give my writing skills a work out.]]

Being brought up in the Valley household Clarissa was taught at a very young age that throwing fits wouldn't get you anywhere but sent to your room and a long lecture. As a result she had learned to deal with things that were unpleasant to her rationally or in the privacy of her own room. Being dead gave her all the privacy she could ask for. With the only change in the room being that in some office someone had turned down the classical music they were playing she figured no one could hear her after all. It was quite a depressing thought, she was really all alone in a crowded room.

She had never been alone in her life. She had always had either her parents or her nanny with her, until she had met Abby then they were join at the hip. Now, nothing no one, her own mother hadn't felt her when she had tried to comfort the widowed woman after the agent had left. This had to be what all of those ghost had felt on those stupid ghost hunting shows Abby had loved. Alone scared depressed they were desperately reaching out for someone and all they got was a bald man and his team stomping around claiming to hear them, but still not really believe they were there. Looking around she felt she finally understood the horror movie saying ' The dead envy the living.'

These people got to go on living their lives, spending time with their friends, they had futures, and plans. In their stupid tacky suits, pretending they knew what was going on, acting as the good guys.Now in the short time that Clarissa had been a ghost she had learned that anger came very quickly,and at time could have a slight effect on the living world. Like now while she was thinking about the closure her mother would never get, the body she would never lay to rest, and her anger rose from some pit in her stomach her father had taught her to close off. The paper cup filled with cold coffee rippled as the dead twenty four year old yelled into the face of an older woman with her blond hair pulled into a tight bun. " You're the FBI, Do something."

The cup shook as if hit by a open window as she turned her anger towards an over weight African man who had gone bald, "I didn't just go missing by my self!" When her grayish green eyes turned toward the man who had just exited his office the cup spilled over seemingly by it's self onto a stack of papers that must have had some importance because the woman from earlier rushed to clean up the mess. He had been the one who had come to her mother's house. It was him, this Agent Malcolm, that had stood in the sitting room her father use to read stories to her and her friends, were her mother had taken picture of her and her prom date before they went off to dinner then to the dance, and told her mother that she was missing. He had said they would do everything in their power to find the man who did this. In a very classic and almost cliche move the light began to flicker as she thought of all the lies he had told to her mother. " Liar, you said you would find him. I'm stuck here because of you."

Sane, breathing Clarissa would have pointed out that the Agent Malcolm had not been the one to kill her there for it was not his fault. Some where in the back of her mind she was telling her self that, but this was the first time she had gotten her chance to really express how enraged she was about being dead. the only time she had come close was last week when Abby's boyfriend- now ex- had told her she needed to move on and get over Clarissa's death.

That last girl, Clarissa Valley, had disappeared. No one ever found her body. But she fit the profile and it had been the right time period. There was no doubt that she was a victim of the serial killer. Agent Malcolm looked at the floor as he walked past the desks of other agents, most of them in a lower position than him. He barely noticed when Agent Mallory's coffee spilled all over her desk. Sucks, was the only thing he thought. All that important paperwork. He didn't even bother looking up to see who was shouting at him. "I'm sorry. I can't help you right now."

"Malcolm, you arrogant bastard!" Mallory shouted after him as he turned and walked down the hall. Who's arrogant? I wasn't even talking to you. Granted, I wouldn't have helped you anyway. At the end of the hall, he made another turn before finding himself in front of a classic investigator's door, the one with a window on the top half that you can't see through. It was his boss's door. He rapped abruptly with one knuckle and went in without waiting for permission to enter. "Here's that paper work you wanted me to get done," he said, pushing back his coat so he could rest his hands on his hips and nodding. "Completed."

Agent Harrison, Special Agent in Charge, threw up his hands with a groan. "Malcolm, this was supposed to be on my desk three hours ago. What's the matter with you?" He picked up the file and flipped through it. After looking through it, he finally grumbled, "You may be late, but at least you're efficient. Get out of here. And the next assignment you drop on my desk better be on time!"

Malcolm rolled his eyes and left the office. It was better not to back talk Harrison.

He was of course not talking to her, since he couldn't see her.That didn't help her mood however. when you scream at a group of people and they ignore you it's different from when you get right in someones face and they act as if you aren't there. " I'm right here." more flickery lights and this time the water in the water cooler bubbled along with her angry cries.She had watched late night crime shows, there should have been a big white board with pictures of the suspects and the victims, times lines drawn out, anything. Instead the office looked like any other a bunch of people doing separate things things. none of which looked to involve her case at all.

Clarissa felt the air around her prickle as if it was electric, as if her anger and taken on some other physical form." Don't you all even care about what he could be doing right now? To my body, to some other poor girl?" She didn't know how long he waited between girls, she wasn't even sure if the person who attacked her was a man, but it couldn't have been to long after her death. How long had she been dead now? time was a non-relevant to her at this point.

What if it had been years and her case file was sitting piled up in some cardboard box somewhere waiting for some forensic psychology student to dig it up and write a thesis on it. She hadn't had the heart to go see how her mother or Abby had been doing since the incident where she shattered a plate at frat boys house.For all Clarissa knew her mother could be dead. That sobered up her anger like a bounty paper towel

Agent Malcolm leaned against the wall outside Harrison's door for a moment. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then, without another thought, he walked back through to his office. On passing Mallory's desk, he growled, "Mal, don't say such things. You know I can't take it." Why would she even say such a thing anyway? To her body? Or some other poor girl's? Does she think this is a joke. Mallory, Harrison, and basically everyone else on the floor knew he was somewhat obsessed with this case. Serial murder. Six girls killed. One missing, body never found. And she has the sheer audacity to joke about it? How long has she been working here? He slammed the door of his office behind him and went straight to his cabinet. He jerked the bottom drawer out and pulled out the file again. He was finished with his work for the day. Now he had time to mope over this failed case.

He couldn't just let it rest. No matter how much time goes by, no matter how much his colleagues tell him he'll never solve it, he couldn't just put it away. No. He had promised this girl, Clarissa's, mother that he would find the murderer, find her body, and give her a proper burial. Malcolm held the photo of Clarissa in his hand, gently brushing away any dirt with his thumb. She was smiling, and her beautiful red hair was half put up, revealing an even more beautiful face beneath. How could anyone harm a wonder like this? He placed her photo back on his desk, but didn't look away. Turning his body half way around, he felt around for his CD player and turned the volume back up. Thank goodness it was a long CD.

Turning confused, and still a little sadden, green eyes in the direction of the bun lady, apparently called Agent Mal, she seemed to be just as confused as Clarissa was. She hadn't heard the woman say anything. In fact the only thing she had heard anyone say was some mumbled jokes about the office being haunted, due to her anger light and water show.She felt ashamed of her actions a moment ago after hearing them being repeated by the younger agents.

It wasn't really her shame that was on her mind though. It was a small tiny dot of hope that had been planted in her after an unknown amount of being totally isolated and alone. It grew from the missing part of her memory that told her that even though she didn't know for sure she had died alone. taking an unneeded breath she walked towards the door that read Agent S. Malcolm. A handy thing about being a ghost was there was no need to open doors and bother with other silly things like that. When she heard the sounds of
Robert Schumann's Fantasie she walked right through the wooden door and into the office of the man 'working' on her case.


It was just what she would have expected a FBI agents office to look like. Though now when she wasn't trying to comfort her mother or scream at him for not catching her killer Clarissa took the time to notice that he wasn't that much older then herself. Late twenties if she had to guess. It was while taking everything in that she saw it. The picture her mother had taken of her at the airport two years ago when she had come back from a summer of backpacking through Italy with friends. A trip that she had been saving up for since she was in high school. She had thought she had the only copy in her loft but then it was probably one of the few pictures that didn't have her making some kind of face. Still why wasn't it thrown with the rest of her file in that cardboard box she had imagined earlier. Leaning over the desk to stare down at her own face she asked in amazement. "You still have my picture?" She didn't expect him to answer her, it just felt better to speak out loud.

Malcolm jerked in his chair and gave a short, involuntary yelp. He hadn't even heard the door open, and yet someone had made it all the way to behind his desk to look over his shoulder without him noticing. Was he really that engrossed with this picture? After taking a few deep breaths, he said, "Mal, you really shouldn't d--" He had looked up. It wasn't Mallory. He knew there was something off about Mal's voice. But, with Mal being the only female agent on this floor, he had assumed it was her. But it wasn't. The girl looked just like...

Agent Malcolm fell out of his chair and scrambled across the floor backwards. "Whoa," he said, holding his hands up in front of him for protection, the far wall against his back. Realizing the absurdity of his behavior, he stood up and fixed his jacket, brushing the dirt off it. There was only two ways to explain this. Either Malcolm had finally gone insane and was hallucinating, or there was just a girl in his office that bore the striking resemblance to Clarissa Valley. Malcolm held his fist to his mouth and cleared his throat. "May I, uh, help you?" he asked uncertainly, hoping she hadn't seen his ridiculous display of bravery, but knowing she had. If she was even real.

[[Thanks for the addition of a new classical piece to my playlist.]]

Too absorbed in her own shock to laugh at a grown man crawling away from her Clarissa just stared at him with wide eyes. Nobody had heard her, let alone seen her, after her death. She had even went to several shops run by self proclaimed physics and had gotten nothing but a good laugh out of it.So why could he see her. As she watched him stand up and right his jacket she couldn't see anything about him that would make him so special that he was her only link to the living.True if she had been alive and saw him at a bar, or even at the park she would have flirted with him, but being cute and seeing ghost were not on the same level.

Not bothering to worry about the chair at clearly stood in the way of her and Agent Malcolm the red haired ghost walked right through it and stood in front of the dark haired man.He was a good head taller then her so she tiled her neck and bounced up on the balls of her feet so that she was closer to his eye level. " You can see me?" That question had already been answered really since there was no one else in the room with them. Still she had to be 100% sure he was talking to her."You can see me? Me: Clarissa Valley?" Pointing one long slightly tanned finger at her chest she looked at him with a mix of disbelief and hope.

Malcolm followed her eyes as she bounced up and down. His mouth hung partly open and he had stopped breathing. Yup. He was definitely crazy. This girl could not be Clarissa Valley. He shook his head, never breaking eye contact. He swallowed. "C-Clarissa Valley's dead." His voice cracked. No. No. I'm not seeing this. No. He pulled his pills out of his pocket and fumbled with the cap, finally looking away. "No, this is not happening. I'm going crazy," he whispered to himself. "Ghosts don't exist. She's a figment of my imagination. I've obsessed over this case so long that I'm seeing things. I gotta call the doctor. No. My therapist. Becky. Yes. I'll call Becky." He searched his pockets, only to realize his cell phone was in his bag on the other side of his desk. There was only one other phone in the room, his land line that sat on his desk, right behind the dead girl.

Malcolm tried to swallow, but his throat was dry. He made eye contact with Clarissa and then glanced at his land line. He thought about screaming for Mallory to come help him, but then she'd spread to the rest of the floor that he had finally gone insane. Insane at twenty-seven. Lovely.

He was only insane. Clarissa's ghost wasn't right there in front of him. He didn't need to be scared of her. Malcolm walked around his desk, giving Clarissa a wide berth, and picked up the phone. Wait, what was he doing? He'd lose his job if they found out he was insane. But...He'd lose his job if he didn't do something about this. He set the phone back down. "What do you want? Why are you here?" She may not exist, but maybe if he found out why she was here, he could figure out how to get rid of her, what his thoughts were that were conjuring her.

He could hear and see her she wasn't alone anymore, true that he thought he was going crazy but at least it was something. Clarissa had to get him to calm down and believe that she was in fact there. " I know Clarissa,me,I know I'm dead. I wouldn't be standing in your office if I wasn't." No if she wasn't dead she'd be in class learning about secret documents that historians had discovered that ended up changing what we thought of history. She could have been one of those historians one day.

When agent Malcolm walked around her as if she herself was the plague she could almost feel her patients slip. The red head female was going to need to get a better handle on this ghost thing if she was going to try not scary him off. She didn't need to tell him to trust her then get mad enough to send a chair hurtling at his face. She hadn't been able to move anything larger the a plate so far but if you can do little things then you can do the big stuff too.

So with a roll of her eyes she turned and walked over to the seat she had walked through a moment ago.She couldn't blame him really , here she was bare foot, nothing on but a white summer dress with her hair down and tousled looking red hair.Isn't that what ghost were suppose to look like, only this was what she looked like before she died so the irony of the situation wasn't lost on her. Smoothing out any wrinkles in her dress she sat down." I know it's hard to believe, if I wasn't a ghost my self I wouldn't believe it. but it's real, I'm kind of right here.As for what i want. What do the tv ghost always want? to find out what happened to them."

Agent Malcolm took a step back. He slapped himself in the face. "Wake up, wake up, Scott." He pinched himself. It didn't work. Clarissa was still sitting in his chair. How she was sitting in his chair was a different thing entirely. Aside from the fact that she was a ghost and therefore didn't exist, she was a ghost. Shouldn't she be, like, falling through the chair or something? Did they have control over that sort of thing? Hand outstretched and somewhat crouched in a defensive position, Malcolm looked at his desk. The picture of Clarissa was still sitting on top of everything. With one hand still held up, he reached over and picked up the picture. Then, he held it out so he could look at the picture and the ghost. They were definitely the same girl.

What do TV ghosts want? TV ghosts. TV ghosts always latched on to someone that could see them in order to solve their case and be brought into the light. A lot of times, it was a government official. They had the most access to these cases. Damn it. If Clarissa's ghost really was real, then that's what was happening to him. To find out what happened to them. Malcolm cleared his throat. "Wait, you mean you don't know what happened to you? You don't remember?" How could she not remember? His arm had fallen to his side, and he looked down to study the picture again, as if it held some clue as to what happened to her.

One second she was sitting firmly on the soft leather chair and the next she was across the room pacing back and forth.It was another little handy ghost trick. She could move from place to place now with out the extended need of really moving. " I remember waking up that morning, agreeing to go to a party with Abby because you really can't let her go off on her own. I remember getting ready and I was wearing shoes then...nothing. I was standing in my mother's sitting room listening to you tell her that I was missing and presumed dead.How could I not even remember getting to the party."

Sure Clarissa drank, she was twenty four and in her last year of college, but she was responsible when she did. She had never gotten in a car with someone who was even buzzed let alone try to drive herself. She could only assume that the shock of being killed had messed with her memory.

Stopping in the middle of the room to look at Malcolm then at the picture he was still holding.Two years, just a measly two years ago when that photo was taken and everything in her life seemed to be going right. It was on the path she had planned out while she was in high school, being killed on the side of he road was not part of that plan of course." What an I forgetting. you talked to Abby right? what happened at the party?

Now that she saw he wasn't this horrible liar that had let her case go cold she felt pretty bad for yelling at his face, even more so now that she knew he had heard her.

Malcolm nodded and set the photo back down on his desk. He had talked to Abby. Abby had been one of the first people he talked to, being one of the closest people to Clarissa and one of the last people to see her before she'd disappeared. He had spent hours interrogating Abby for every little drop of information possible. But, Abby had been too drunk to remember anything. Talking out loud, so as to organize his thoughts, he went through what Abby had told him. "You two arrived at the party at about eight PM. She said you had driven. You two entered together. You each grabbed drinks. Abby downed hers. And pretty soon, her boyfriend arrived and swept her away to one of the upstairs bedrooms. When they eventually came down, you were gone. She had assumed you left. But when she went outside the next morning, your car was still there. She then figured you had left with some hunk. But she couldn't tell us if she'd seen you with anyone that night. Hours later and you hadn't returned, so she called the cops and filed a missing person's report." Malcolm ground his teeth together in anger. "Why hadn't she thought to call the cops sooner?" He slammed his fist on his desk. "There had been reports of the serial killer. Didn't she even think that you fit the profile of a victim?"

Earlier, his shouting and beating things might have brought Mallory or James, or even Harrison into his office to find out what was wrong. But it'd happened so much that they didn't even bother anymore.

"We interviewed every person we could find that had been to that party. Every God-damned last one of them! No one could tell us anything. Some had seen you leave, but they said you left alone. No one will confess. No one will come forward. And now, this case is closed. It's a cold-case. I can't do anything."

(( So sorry I had to get off and didn't even have the time to log off.))

Clarissa stood there listening to him describe what could be the beginning of any one of their party nights. Abby must have felt so guilty for not acting sooner, but she couldn't blame her best friend. Of course the blond hadn't thought of the recent serial killings things like that didn't make it on her radar.Abby grew up in a sheltered family that had her growing up believing that with enough money the bad parts of the world didn't effect you. Agent Malcolm seemed pretty upset about something that didn't even phase her it was just how her best friend was. What did however get to her was that people said she left the party alone and with out her car. That wasn't something she would normally do.

"Are you sure, are...I wouldn't do that. I'm not stupid.I'm..." Had she been so drunk that she was trying to walk, no she watched the news. Clarissa knew that it wasn't a good time for red heads to go walking around alone.Tears welled up along the corners of her eyes. Why was it that not one could tell her what had happened. " I died alone. I died alone and no one is ever going to find me." Breathing Clarissa Valley would have smacked her self for getting this emotional, dead Clarissa Valley just couldn't stop getting worked up over everything.

[I understand. Happens to me all the time. Plus, I have oodles of amounts of time to just sit here and stare at the screen, so I applaud anyone who can manage to get away.]

Agent Malcolm shook his head. "I know. I know. From what your friends and family said, they didn't think you'd go off walking, either. Granted, they didn't think you'd drive drunk, either. But from what everyone says, you were...are..." That's gonna be a hard thing for him. How does one talk to a ghost, especially about that ghost when it was alive? She. He meant she. "...smart and would never do something like that. There had to be..." Malcolm stroked his chin in thought, staring at the floor but not really seeing it. "You had to have been kidnapped before you got to that car..." He took a quick glance up and locked eyes with Clarissa.

Dropping his hand and sighing, he said, "What the hell am I doing? Ghosts don't exist. You are a figment of my imagination. I need to get some rest. Get you out of my head." He reached for his pill bottle again, but was too lazy to undo the cap. He tossed the bottle back on his desk. The momentum caused it to roll off the edge. Rolling his head to the side and looking up at Clarissa again, he groaned in defeat. "Fine. If you really are a ghost, what do you want me to do? There's nothing I can do on your case anymore. It's closed...cold. I've tried getting Harrison to reopen it several times, but he won't." He held out his hands, questioning. As if to say, There's nothing more I can do. But he knew there was so much more he wanted to do.

Seeing her getting all choked up reminded Malcolm so much of her mother. He remembered how she had tried to hold back her tears just this same way when he had delivered the bad news. Then, he hadn't known what to do. But then, he could put his hand on her mother's back in an effort of comfort her. He could do nothing now. Nothing at all. Never had Agent Malcolm felt so helpless. As a trained agent, trained in all forms of combat as well as torture resistance, it was nigh impossible for him to feel helpless. And yet, now, at that moment, he did.

There it was the truth that the only person who could see here couldn't do a damn thing to help her. She was going to be stuck wandering around this world hoping that the killer would strike again and slip up. The chance of that happening felt really slim. So there she stood in a room with a man who didn't believe she was real being told she was going to be stuck in ghost form.

Clarissa had never thought about what would happened after she died, the last thought on any twenty four year old's mind was death.She knew though she wasn't suppose to be stuck here, or at least she knew that that was not what she wanted. " That's it then. Your telling me that there is nothing that can be done for me?"

She didn't want to accuses Agent Malcolm of giving up but that's what it felt like to her. She was standing right there so it was hard to wrap her mind around the fact that even if she did remember what had happened to her that night, it wouldn't matter. Who could she tell, the agent in front of her and who would believe him. " I understand...I just, this is not where I thought I would be at twenty four you know." She had thought she would be alive.

Clarissa moved over towards him reaching out her hand as if to comfort him but stopped mid way. She wasn't sure how she was able to sit on chairs and stand on solid ground but if she was able to touch him she bet she would give the poor guy a heart attack. Bringing her hand back down she looked away from him towards the spot the bottle of pills had landed." Thanks for at least caring about the case and all."

Malcolm leaned back in his chair, his hand covering his mouth. Here, in front of him, was a real, live...er, sort of live, ghost. The ghost of a victim to be exact. If only she could recall what had happened to her that night. He gently set his hand on his desk and absent-mindedly began drumming his fingers. There were methods used to help witnesses or victims remember important things. Sometimes the trauma of an attack was so intense that the victims were in shock and had blocked everything out. In times like that, they had always found a way to jog their memory. But never before had they ever had a victim after they had died. Would it work on a ghost?

Malcolm sat up and looked at the files again. There had to be a way to reopen the case. There must be some piece of evidence somewhere that will be enough for Harrison. As of this moment, all they could do was wait till he killed again. Malcolm was not about to let that happen. He'd get closure for Clarissa's mom and save any potential victims. He gathered up the photos and closed the files, placing them in his bag. It was time for him to go home. He picked up his bag, resting the strap on his shoulder and then made eye contact with Clarissa.

"Are you absolutely certain you can't remember what happened? One hundred percent?" He held her gaze, trying to force her to remember something. Anything. Not that it'll do him much good. He'd still need evidence. And if he just randomly told the floor he'd found new information on the case, they'd ask him where he got it.

Oh, a ghost. Yeah, that'll fly.

Clarissa felt like she was being interrogated by her father. It wasn't as if she was lying to him about her memory loss to get attention. Closing her eyes, mainly to avoid looking at his since it felt like he was trying to pry her memory out of her, she went over the entire day. Breakfast was a cup of coffee and a muffin from a stand near campus. Then came her Gothic lit class,Advanced Roman History, Calculus, and finally she met up with Abby in the gym for their after class work out.When the two had gotten home they had showered and gotten ready. Then she was at her mother's listening to them tell her that her daughter was dead.

"I'm sorry but I can't even remember getting to the party." Was it just because she was recently dead or was her death that traumatic. If it was the later Clarissa wasn't sure she wanted to remember anything at all. She would much rather stay a ghost then to have the memory of being brutally murdered.

Looking down at her bare feet she felt a little ashamed at the thought. Here Malcolm was trying to find a way to solve her murder and she was willing to let it stay cold just so she didn't have to remember what had happened to her. Worst part was she was asking him to try harder.It hit her out of no where, no not a memory, but it had her gray green eyes widening and her head snapping up to stare back into his face. She looked exactly how she did in her loft before she left for the party minus the shoes. She didn't know if it would help or anything but it was worth a shot to tell him."My shoes. I had on my pair of Jimmy Choos, they cost me like 8 hundred dollars I wouldn't have taken them off for the world, but I don't have them.I'm dressed the same way I was before I left but I don't have on my shoes..." She raised her foot and wiggled her toes as if to prove her point.

[[I'm so sorry I've been gone. My computer broke and wasn't fixed for two weeks. Then I got it back yesterday and the battery died.]]


Malcolm's nose twitched. Shoes. Clarissa's ghost wasn't wearing shoes. Did that mean her shoes weren't with her body, wherever it was? They'd never found any Jimmy Choos at the party. Plenty of shoes left behind by drunken partiers, but no Jimmy Choos. It's not much to go on, but. . . "It's a start," he assured her. It was a miracle he'd gotten any information from her. It wasn't anything he could tell to another agent, seeing as they didn't know where Clarissa's body was, so he had no way of knowing if she was wearing shoes or not. He nodded toward the door. "Come on. I'm going home, and it would be good to have you close in case you remember anything. I assume you don't have anywhere to go to anyway." In two strides, he was at the door and opening it. He almost waited for her to leave first, as a gentleman would, but to everyone else, that would make him appear crazy (a diagnosis he hadn't completely ruled out just yet).

He closed and locked his door behind him, certain that Clarissa could walk through walls. It felt weird locking someone in his office, even if they can get out. It wasn't a habit he wanted to get used to. As he walked down the hall, between desks and past other offices, Agent Malcolm tried not to look too nervous or suspicious or any other emotion that would make his colleagues look at him too closely. He didn't talk to Clarissa, either.

A cold wind hit him in the face as he pushed open the door and entered the parking lot. A few cars were scattered here and there, but he was the only living soul out there. He unlocked the driver's door to his black two-door T-top car. It wasn't the prettiest looking, nor did it get the best gas mileage, but he always had a soft spot for T-tops.

Clarissa nodded in agreement,she didn't have anywhere to stay she had spent most of the time after her death floating in a grayish nothingness. As if she was stuck in a crack not able to go back to the world of the living but unable to move on to the afterlife. She watched him walk out the door waiting for the click that signaled he had locked it. the first person to be bale to hear her thought he was going crazy, well at least he had tried to act like he thought she was real. She didn't bother fallowing him out the door, through the office of government agents who couldn't see her and had really given up on her. Instead she let herself slid through the floor like she had the wall. It had to be the most useful thing about being a ghost. It made her feel as if her body was going numb when ever she would pass through solid objects,she hadn't tried it on anyone living yet. It was kind of relaxing not having to focus her energy on not floating through something, it took a lot to be able to stand on the floor with out letting herself slip through.

When she had finally reached the parking deck below she turned around to see Malcolm standing next to a black T-top. It looked a little worse for wear and not something she would ever drive but it wasn't her car so it didn't matter what she thought of it. Moving to slid through the door and into the passengers seat she once again focused her energy into sitting on the seat. She could barely feel the leather of the seat under her as she turned to smile at Malcolm not bothering with her seat belt. "Being dead has it's perks."

Malcolm curled his lip, flaring his nostrils as though he'd smelt something rotten. "There is nothing good about being dead," he growled through clenched teeth, gripping the steering wheel and staring straight ahead. His knuckles were white. He forced himself to take deep, even breaths and calm himself down. When he released the steering wheel, blood rushed back to his fingers. He flexed his fingers then leaned over and buckled his seatbelt. "Put your seatbelt on," he said as he turned the key to start the car.

"I don't care if ghosts are indestructible. We're not leaving till you buckle up." Despite his statement, he began to pull out of the parking lot anyway.

Why was it that he obsessed over this specific case? There were hundreds of other unsolved cases. Why this one? It didn't make sense even to Malcolm. He didn't have any special connection to anyone in the case. Just the small promise he'd made to Clarissa's mother.

Not bothering to point out that it was a futile to use the energy it would take to grab hold of the metal buckle and move it to it's counter part and instead chose to look out the window as he pulled out. Indestructible, it felt less like that to Clarissa and more like she wasn't a strong enough part of this realm for the things in it to hurt. She had read many different cultures theories on death, ranging from the more commonly known such as the spirit going to heaven to reincarnation, but none of what she had read would have prepared her for the feeling of being dead, a ghost, a spirit, whatever you wanted to call it.

So instead she gazed out he window and pretended for a brief moment that she was alive again, sitting in the passenger seat of Abby's car as they spend down the interstate blaring Katy Perry. Closing her green gray eyes she let the lyrics of Hot n Cold slip past her lips. It had been so annoyingly catchy that it had become one of her favorite songs. Turning her face back towards Malcolm she let out a little sigh when she saw his expression. he looked confused and aggravated. "Sorry your stuck as the only one who can see me." Not that she had any control over that at all. "Maybe I could...I don't do something to help or something." The red head wasn't sure what she could help with. It wasn't like she could give psychological advise- she had only taken one or two psyc classes in her entire college career- and her closes interaction with the FBI was when she watched Bones and Criminal Minds.

Malcolm grunted in response. "Just try and remember what happened." He was gripping the steering wheel again. He had just started to forget Clarissa's case, with the help of the drugs of course. Oh, who was he kidding? He'd been looking at her case when she'd shown up. Well, it had been a week or so before he pulled it out again. That was his all time record. Maybe if he had of just left it there, her ghost wouldn't have shown up. Malcolm took a deep breath and slowed the car down; they'd been nearing 50 on a 35mph road. Luckily, no cops were around. "Sorry," he said, not looking at Clarissa. "I'm just frustrated. Maybe I'll be better tomorrow."

After fifteen minutes, a drive that normally would have taken twenty-two minutes, Agent Malcolm pulled into the parking lot of an uptown apartment complex. He parked in his alotted space, turning off the car. He leaned his head back against the seat for a moment and clsoed his eyes. "Alright," he said. "Come on." He was more exhausted now than angry. By the end of a day working on murder cases, most people would be exhausted. "Apartment's this way." He got out of the car, carefully closing the door. He couldn't stand people who slammed their doors, even when they were angry.

His apartment was three floors up, room 326. It was tidy, except for the stacks of paper on his coffee table. He tossed his shoulder-bag on the couch, locked the door behind him, and sank onto the couch next to it. He didn't even bother with the TV. The only things on this late were crime shows, anyway. He used to like those shows, back before this serial murder. But then, whenever he tried to watch them, every victim became one of the victims from this case. Many times, he'd seen Clarissa's face. Those shows made him sick.

( I would have added more after being gone so long but I have a ton of Replies to post. I’m sorry I was out for a week. I had a lot of wired bruises showing up and need to go get them looked at.)



Clarissa walked through the door eyeing the apartment laid out in front of her. It was neater then her and Abby’s loft was, of course a single man living alone was bound to be cleaner than two twenty- something year old girls. It seemed colder than her old apartment also not in temperature she couldn’t really tell the difference between hot and cold anymore. This was more of an empty feeling like this place was only used to sleep, eat and basically survive in. It reminded her of some of her mother’s friend’s old houses, look but never touch anything. That feeling that if you so much as moved wrong you would disrupt the whole place. It wasn’t helping with the awkward feeling building up in her. The red head was here because she had n where else to go, but she didn’t need to sleep or eat, she couldn’t shower and change her clothes. She was going to be in the way.
Intertwining her fingers behind her back she turned her face to stare at the rest of the apartment. She wished he would turn a television on for some sound. “So what do you normally do at night?” If she was going to be a stalker in his life until she got her memory back Clarisse wanted to be prepared. She didn’t want to disrupt any kind of night time ritual he had. This was going to be uncomfortable without any added awkward moments.