And I find them in my closet in the pockets of my jeans
Now I'm constantly reminded of the time I was nineteen
Every single one's forgotten in a laundromat machine
Mid-Morning, September 14th, 1890 — The Ministry of Magic
The aurors were taking their sweet time investigating her case. Two weeks was sufficient time to catch a murderer, in her opinion anyway. Then again, were she the investigator she wouldn't rest until answers were had. Mr. [NPC] didn't have the same motivation she did. He had a wife and children at home and had an intense desire for normal working hours. A devoted and intelligent murderer just didn't top his selfish desires, Fallon realized bitterly. Men like him oughtn't be permitted to pass the training program.
She had stopped into the ministry to express such opinions to Mr. Prewett and to plead her case to come back to work. It wasn't as though her flat was safer than an office filled with competent aurors. Even desk duty would be better than endless hours of pacing around her flat. Fallon's only outlet had been her daily visits with Lachlan, but he had gone home that morning. His release was a relief to her, further proof that she hadn't killed him. Still, she selfishly wished he hadn't returned to his home as she now had one less place to visit.
The stack of letters on the corner of her desk had been quietly shoved into the pocket of her robe. Fallon wasn't sure whether or not they were read in her absence, but it didn't matter. The letters weren't going to exist for much longer anyway, for as soon as she arrived home they would be thrown into the fireplace unopened (the brief fire was worth the anxiety it would cause). Whatever caring words her once-secret pen pal had to say mattered naught after a week's silence. (Yeah, Fallon was still fuming over the ordeal.)
With the letters in her pocket, Fallon boarded the lift and began to head home. The rickety thing made an odd sound as it came to a stop two floors down, its doors opening to reveal the one and only Mr. Hatchitt. Wordlessly, Fallon moved further into the corner and kept her attention trained on an open space of floor. Just because they were once friendly didn't mean she had to engage with him now. If anything, Mr. Hatchitt would likely prefer her silence, as he certainly hadn't respected her opinion when it mattered most.
It wasn't until the lift made a second groaning sound that Fallon realized something was amiss. They weren't moving.
Fuck.