Clinton Priest

Chapter Fourteen

At night, I dream of Clinton, of his beautiful bright eyes and smooth husky voice. Speaking to him reminded me of my childhood when I would cuddle up close to Diana and she would tell me fairy tale stories as the storm raged on outside. I wanted more of him.

It's the sound of my phone that wakes me up the next morning and the sobbing voice of Anabelle that keeps my attention. Augustine Love is dead. The phone slips from my hand and lands on the carpeted floor with a thud. I can still hear Anabelle's teary voice as she tells me the news. It's heavy and broken with sadness. I pick up the phone with shaking hands from the floor and place it back on the bed.

I grip the rosary that hangs around my neck in need of comfort. It was just yesterday when his daughter and I were planning his birthday party. And now he's gone. How can he be gone! My mind spins around in circles trying to comprehend this tragedy.

He was found dead in his office, Anabelle told me, with two bloody holes in his neck completely drained off blood. There was nothing missing; no sign of a struggle. There was only the dead body.

I can't imagine what this feels like for Ana. I just can't .

I rush downstairs to the living room. The entire family will be gathered in the living room for prayers. I need to tell someone. I bump into George, our butler, and apologise over my shoulder as I step into the hall.

"Augustine Love is dead," I burst out   as mother prepares to say the morning prayer. All three of them turn to look at me at once as if I were mad for bringing up such a topic at six in the morning. Only grand pa shakes his head in sorrow. "We should pray for him as well," I add as I make my way to them, kneeling next to grand pa.

"There is no amount of prayers that can save his pagan soul," mother spits. Father nods in agreement.

"He should have thought about salvation while he was still alive," he adds.

I bite my lip to keep from saying something that will land me in trouble.

Grand pa holds my hand in old feeble wrinkled ones as we bow our heads in prayer. I pray for many things but most of all, I pray for Augustine Love.

"I don't want you leaving this house," mother says after prayers. "Leave the dead to mourn the dead."

"Anabelle is my friend. How can you expect me to ignore her in her time of grief?" I ask almost on the verge of shouting.

"Listen to your mother," father says as he tightens his bathing robe. "The Loves and the Sinclairs have nothing in common."

"Anabelle was in this house yesterday. You didn't send her away then," I tell them.

Father steps up to me, his hands folding into fists. I step back in haste knocking down the vase of flowers that sit on the center table onto the floor. It shatters as I slip on the spilled water and land on the sharp shards. I bite my lip in pain at the glass piercing deep into my skin.

I look up at my family with tears building up in my eyes. Grand pa reaches for me, helping me up from the floor.

"This is enough!" He wheezes angrily. "This has gone too far. Roman, where did I go wrong? I never raised a hand against you when you were a boy. I raised you right. How dare you raise your hand against your own flesh and blood; against your own daughter?"

"Dad, stay out of this," father says, his gray eyes burning with anger. He's face is turning red. It's a telling sign of his humiliation. "It's none of your business."

Grand pa walks up to him, breathing heavily in his face. "Business? None of my business?" He shakes his head. "You have no idea what's coming. I'm done with you, Roman Sinclair." He turns to me. "Come with me. We are going out and I dare any of you to stop us."