Wicked Games: Book Two of The Psychopath Series

Chapter 18

The funeral was over. The long, depressing, excruciating, funeral was over where Faith, Alex, Isabeth, Malachi, and Dalton all sat behind The Hamilton's on the second pew at Mount Olive Baptist Church. Isabeth stared at the black casket and its gold handles with desert-dry eyes. Dalton cried like a baby—tears pouring, snout rolling. Isabeth had to switch seats with Malachi during the eulogy to wrap her arms around him and rock the sorrow away. Malachi silent cried, tears streamed down his chocolate face as the choir sung Take Me To the King.

As three hundred and seventy-eight family members, friends, designers, models, and celebrities rocked their heads to the beat of the music and shed tears Isabeth stayed emotionless rocking Dalton. Faith dabbed the tears away with a handkerchief before they fell from her eyes. Even Alex shed a tear when Mr. Hamilton spoke of Fiona's first steps, thirst for life, and creative mind but not Isabeth. Alex knew; he saw her blank face from the corner of his eye.

Alex stood in The Hamilton's silver room, one of the four sitting rooms in the house ordained with green-grey walls and white crown dentil molding beckoning the Victorian age of horse-drawn carriages. An antique mirror rested on a marble mantle where Gavin leaned his shoulder, rubbing his hands along his newly tapered hair. Touches of gold embellished the silver room from the gold frames that hung on the walls, gold and crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, and the gold knick-knacks sitting on the cedar tables throughout the room. It all was all a statement, I know we're not supposed to talk about money but we're rich as hell.

Alex took a swallow of earl gray from a dainty eggshell teacup watching Isabeth talking with Mr. Franz, their senior year history instructor. She sipped on a glass of white wine amid a low purr of soft whispers. He knew she was questioning him like some second-rate detective. The way her head was moving, pulling the words out her mouth, shaking her head at everything Mr. Franz said as if she liked him. Which based on an unpublicized student body poll no one did.

Malachi glided pass a waiter in a white dress shirt and black vest with pants to match carrying a tray of macaroni and cheddar-gouda filled spoons, and a huddle of middle-aged men going on about the Dow Jones. He soberly stood next to Alex following his eye line of sight. Malachi slightly curved his lips; this wasn't the place for a full-on smile. Alex was staring at Isabeth, again. She'd been captivating the irises of his little brother's eyes since he stepped out the limo in front of Dawson fresh from his little hospital visit.

Malachi placed a hand on Alex's shoulder, "We're leaving in an hour so say your goodbyes."

Malachi's eyes stared ahead on Eugene Delacroix's Turk in a Turban taking up the entire wall between two massive windows outlined by faint gray rod-pocket drapes showing the shadowy backyard shrouded with black clouds. He was ready to leave. He didn't even want to be there, to begin with but it was bad etiquette not to.

Malachi wholeheartedly lived by the phrase the dead should bury the dead. Who would want to go to something so gravely depressing, utterly soul-crushing? Funerals were nothing but stabbing a knife in a wound that had already been pierced the day before. It was painful and unnecessary.

"Who do I need to say goodbye too?" Alex took a salted chocolate-dipped mandarin orange slice off a passing tray and tossed it in his mouth. "These are your friends."

Malachi let his hand drop off Alex's shoulder. "I don't care who you know or don't know but you will give your condolences to the Hamilton's." Malachi's eyes switched to Mr. Hamilton being embraced in a bear hug by burly, hot garlic breathed Mr. Hollis.

"Sure," Alex spoke as a tang of citrus stuck to the rim of his mouth. He changed thoughts. "I can't remember what happened after I drank the wine but I did remember what kind of wine it was." He cleared his throat. "A 1978 Tchad Élatant. So I looked it up...and apparently it's a very rare wine and it's only sold at one place. Boston. If we leave right now we can get there before it closes."

"No." Malachi blankly answered.

Alex turned his body, faced him; Isabeth was gone venturing off deeper in the house.

Malachi's face was drained; the muscles of his eyes pulled back tight, faint wrinkles carved their way across his face. Alex knew fifty-percent of Malachi's stress came solely from him, worrying about him, fixing his past mistakes. He was the reason his twenty-year-old brother could easily pass for twenty-three. "Then we'll go in the morning."

"I can't miss another day at the firm." Malachi gestured to a zoned-out Gavin that they were leaving. "I have an internship, you know."

"Don't you want to know what happen that night?" Alex grabbed Malachi's arm, "What we forgot."

Malachi gulped the last drop of white wine that sat at the bottom of his glass, "I'm quite fine not remembering the last day of my friend's life." He pulled his arm loose.

Alex scoffed. "Then, I'll go by myself."

"Out of the question." Malachi held up his hands as if a rapid car barreled down a dark street he was crossing.

"What's your deal, Chi!" Alex looked at him intently, trying to read his thoughts.

"My deal is, I don't feel comfortable poking around in police business. It isn't our job." Malachi said. "The coroner said Fiona's death was a suicide," He whispered. "And that's that. I don't care what Isabeth's spidey senses say."

"We're just going to a wine shop." Alex coyly smiled. "Asking about a wine. No misdemeanors. No felonies. No crimes committed."

Malachi sat his glass on a waiter's passing tray. "I'm not going and neither is your ass."

Alex stared at the glasses of filled wine traveling away from him with a watering mouth, "You and I both know how things can get covered up, how police can make mistakes. Aren't you curious?" Alex glared at his older brother intently. "Don't you want to know how you fell asleep on a kitchen island or how you bruised your knuckles." Alex looked at the hand Malachi was hiding in his pants pocket. Malachi fought the urge to pulled it out and give it a pensive once over. "Didn't you like borderline love Fiona? Don't you like owe her?"

Malachi stuffed his hand further in his pocket, "I'll see what I can do."

Should they go to the wine shop or let the police do their job?