[ 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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It was Monday. The day they didn't want to get out of bed for. Today was Fiona's funeral. Fast, yes but the Hamilton's wanted to bury their eldest daughter before the grief grew too strong and so they could crumble out of the public eye.
The limo scrolled down the little side road only the locals knew as Pomegranate Cove. There was one more stop to make, one more passenger to retrieve. Carl, the chauffeur sipped on his cold coffee as his hand rest on the steering wheel. He refused to make eye contact with his sullen passengers. He rose up the partition as soon as Isabeth's bleak face entered the car.
The car was quieter than the room they took their SAT's in. Malachi studied his clean, buffed, and clipped nails. Dalton closed his eyes lying down on the seat, mentally preparing to see Fiona's cold body laying in a casket then lowered into the lonely, dark ground. Alex held Isa's hand, stroking her palm with his thumb. She still hadn't cried.
She woke up tight-lipped that morning, rolling out of his bed. She robotically moved around getting things done; taking a shower, getting dressed, brushing the tangles out of her hair, and putting Dalton back together after he broke down on the porch at the sight of the limo sitting in the driveway.
The limo stopped in front of the little beach house they all loved to bar-b-que at during Fourth of July, Labor Day, and any other holiday accompanied with fireworks.
Carl got out the car, scurried over to the backdoor and pulled back the silver handle letting in the music of the vocal wind cooing a soothing melody.
"I'll go" Alex motioned for the door.
"No. I got it" Isabeth gently placed her hand on his shoulder. "I already know what to say. I rehearsed it."
Malachi and Dalton didn't offer, they didn't even move. The limo shook after the driver slammed the door behind Isabeth.
She stood by the limo as the wind played games, swimming through her flat-ironed tresses. She looked up at the deep dark sky, filled to the brink with precipitation, refusing to let a drop fall and touch the earth. Just like the wells in her eyes. Tears brimmed at the brink but defied the call to appear. To fall from her eyes and stream down her cheeks. Unlike Faith, she wanted to cry but couldn't. She tried to push them out but the levee wouldn't break.
Isabeth rubbed her finger's along a black Mercedes as she walked up the driveway wondering whom the owner of the mysterious sedan could be. Two-thirds of Evening's population had luxury cars; black Mercedes were the pick of choice. Was it Auggie's? No, he had a BMW. Was it Giselle's? No, a chauffeur would be waiting in the front seat with a newspaper. And Paolo, Faith's on again off again lover's Mercedes was gunmetal grey.
Isabeth jogged up the steps; passed the porch swing her and timidly knocked on the door. It opened.
"Faith!" She called walking through the doorway.
A low groan grumbled at her side. She didn't tense up or run with fear. She knew who that deep bellow belonged too.
"Delilah. It's me girl." She patted the pooch's soft head. "Where's your owner?"
Delilah brushed her sleek body along Isabeth's dangling hand as she passed by. Delilah climbed up the wooden stairs. The rustic wood planks creaked under Isabeth's feet as she climbed behind the tailless canine.
As she reached the top floor a dim light leaked through the ajar master bedroom door. Delilah pushed the door open with her snout and walked her muscular body in. Isabeth stayed standing in the dark hallway.
Isabeth's head started to spin like a globe in a geography class. She pulled in a deep breath holding herself up with a faint hand resting on the pale yellow wall. She didn't want to do this again; get another friend dressed for another funeral, stop another friend from breaking down in the graveyard, and making awkward conversation at the repast.
Isabeth mumbled a prayer as she neared the door asking for strength and might: the strength of an ox and the might of lion. A cocktail of strength and might, an ounce of love with a dash of sincerity was the only method to getting Faith to do anything. Not many people besides Isabeth, Augustus, and Mr. Payson possessed the talent to smooth talk Faith into doing anything she didn't want to do.
"I'm not going." Faith declared sitting up in the bed nursing a glass of bourbon.
It looks like Faith is in a mood. Should she go to Fiona's funeral?
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