"What we had is over, Dawn. You don't have to do this anymore. You're free to go."
I traced the glass separating us with my fingers, looking into his green eyes and whispered to the phone, "So you want to know why I'm still here?"
He just stare...
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I woke with a start and an imbued guilt of what was about to happen. It was after three in the morning. I had had my sleep for the day. Climbing out of the bed, I made my way to the bathroom, brushed my teeth and splashed water onto my eyes. From the chest of drawers, I pulled out a pair of sweatpants and dragged them over my underwear, keeping the tee-shirt I was wearing on. With one lingering look at the bedroom, I ventured into the study.
Break my phone: check
Keep the memory card: check
Keep the fourth sketch: check
Format Silas's laptop: check
Send mine to the car: check
Looking around the study-room, relishing the fragments of memories, I let out a sigh and turned the table-lamp on. A while later, Wayne came into the room, not languid whatsoever. In fact, it looked as if he hadn't been able to close his eyes at all.
"They are downstairs," he informed, alarmed.
"Is the surveillance camera on now?" I picked at one nail, my eyes still on Wayne.
"Yes, Mrs. Dale."
"We need to stage the study." With that, I broke the nail I was picking at, wincing in obvious pain, then dropped it on the floor. Breathing out slowly, I turned to him. "Do you have the blood?"
I watched as he, with his gloved hands, handed me the bag bearing just the perfect amount of blood and went around the table, pushing the Aeon chair behind that gently. He pressed an index finger on the cold mug of coffee, the liquid spilling on the floor, naturally. I handed him a book from the nearest shelf. He dropped that open on the floor.
I reclined the dimly-lit lamp on the desk, as careless as it could look. Then, walking around, I clutched at the lace runner, squeezing it before dropping on the desk at right where it had been.
"Mrs. Dale, do you want me to spill the blood?" Wayne had his eyebrows raised, clearly concerned at that state.
"I'll do it myself."
With that, I poured the right amount of blood erratically on the edge of the desk just the way the back of my head would bleed after someone pushed me against the desk. I let the rest of the blood spill on the marble floor and behind my neck, the back of my tee-shirt dampening at the process. Putting one bare foot on the pool of blood, I placed the very same foot forcefully on the floor, then put on the flip flops, watching for any kind of unwanted spillage.
Eventually, from the threshold, I admired Wayne and my handiwork. A definite crime scene, signs pointing to a struggle.
