Fleeting Gossamer (James Wesley)

[5] Seven Bullets For Seven Memories

A knock came at her door late that night; not unusual in the hour, though concerning in method. Wesley never knocked. He had the spare key.

Leta sat in the living room with her bag on her lap as she tapped her feet against the floor. She'd never felt more nervous, not since the Van Lunt incident, but she'd never felt more thrilled either. She'd jump at the chance to start over, and the fact that Wesley had initiated it...

She opened the door with a smile and it died right there as her eyes landed on a face she did not recognize, one that was troubled and pained.

"Mrs Wesley? Mrs Leta Wesley?"

She wrapped her arms about herself, "I.. I think you have the wrong house." She moved to close the door,  but the man's hand jammed her attempts.

"Please!" the man pleaded,  "My name," he was breathless, Leta noticed, and sweat slicked his forehead, "is Francis. I worked with your husband, James Wesley. It is my understanding that he used to live here."

Leta shivered in the cold that suddenly nestled in her bones. "I told you,  you've got it all wrong I don't... Wesley and I'"

"Were married, yes. That much I understand. He spoke of you once, fondly too." He managed a weak smile before that small, subtle heaviness dawned upon his features again as he noticed the bags she held in her hands. Her knuckles were white and shs trembled. He stepped forward,  "Ma'am, I don't have long before...before my employer starts asking for me. But, may I come inside?"

Her heart plummeted to the depths of a chasm she didn't know was there. She dropped the bags and felt a heat rise in her cheeks as hot lines lashed down.

"James?" her voice was so small and so desperate, her lowering lip quivering at the very mention of his name.

Francis gave a small, meaningful nod and made his way into the tight space of the entry. He studied the vacant space and saw the remnants of a life,  a peaceful one. A pair of cuff links on the table, a wedding band on her finger, two empty wine glasses in the kitchen. For every token of bliss he saw he counted a bullet. In just the first section of the house he found seven: seven memories for seven bullets, all of which found James Wesley and never left him.

Leta always thought his name carried a certain kind of flair, an eloquent aftertaste of citrus and cigar smoke, delightful and dangerous. It perfectly summed up the man behind the name.