[ Highest Rank #101 in Mystery/Thriller ]
Time has passed. Things have changed. Isabeth, Benny, and Faith aren't quite the same. They have blood on their hands, a code they honor, and secrets they keep locked away. The Psychopath Maker knows this an...
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Faith reclined back in the velvety smooth leather dining chair, she swirled the ruby liquid around the half-filled wine glass as waiters bustled through aisles with trays filled with savory and decadent plates at Demarche during the evening rush. A man in a tuxedo at a baby grand piano played light melodies serenading all who were dining. Her ears erased the chatter hovering around as her eyes studied all the faces at the tables in front of the prime location that she reserved two weeks ago. It was where Isabeth, Harper, and her were supposed to get their stomachs full before meeting the guys at 7711 to dance out the last night of summer. Now, it just her that sat there.
None of them cared. There in the middle of the floor was Breen having her hand caressed by her soccer-obsessed boyfriend, Colby. Shannon Richmond, the president of the Evening Society Association was having her daily family dinner; the poor thing couldn't boil water without burning the pot. Shannon shooed away the matra dee as he tried to apologize for giving her the table near the kitchen. Her daughter Kerry refused to connect her eyes with her mother. Then there was Conrad, the usual loner reading a book as he slowly sipped his warm tomato soup from the copper-colored spoon.
Emma, Rudolph's curly chestnut-headed daughter blasted out the kitchen with a tray full of plates piping hot and ready to be devoured. The swinging door slammed against the wall. THUMP!
"I can't eat like this!" Shannon grumbled. She took the napkin from her lap and threw in the air.
The white cotton cloth hung in the air as Emma tramped by. It clung to her face blinding her. Emma's foot hit her heel and for a second, as she was on her way down, she could see the lobster claws floated in the air like freshly blown bubbles. CLACK! The thin ivory plates shattered on the floor.
They didn't care, they griped and moaned about the mundane, arguing over table placement, and too much salt in my parsnip puree or my lamb is too tepid I wanted it steaming; they weren't concerned. Not one of them stepped away from their seat; walked over to Faith and expressed their condolences for her loss. It's not like they didn't know. Faith knew they knew. Shannon snuck a peek every chance she got: over the menu, when she picked up her utensils, as the waiter passed by her table refilling the lemon water. Her minions have already informed her. Plus, Mennie Lewis made that arousing breaking news report earlier. They disgusted Faith, anger flared through her flesh, shooting to her head, steaming through her ears.
Faith chugged the remaining wine down her smooth throat; she placed the glass on the white cloth lined table by the never touched almond, cranberry Caesar salad sans the seared chicken breast. She wasn't going to cry. She didn't cry when Gavin broke up with her. She didn't cry when Fiona told her she would never speak to her after hooking up with her boyfriend, she certainly didn't cry when Isabeth froze her out of the group and she didn't cry when Fulton raped her. She doesn't cry. She filed the pain, the hurt, and the suffering away in the deepest, darkest corner of her mind and moved on. That was her way of doing it, crying only gave you bags and they weren't the ones Louis Vuitton made.
