Clinton Priest

Chapter Twenty Five

I leave the Barclay Estate the next day dressed in a knee length black dress and a fascinator. Diana has been fidgeting all morning but I refuse to acknowledge her. I'm not speaking to her. She probably thinks it's because we are standing at St. Michael's cemetery for the final funeral rights of Augustine Love. But it's not. I'm angry because she let Lizzy into my room and allowed her to take the only belonging of grandma Linda in my care. A ruby necklace.

My eyes linger on Lizzy's exposed cleavage. The ruby pendant lies tainted nestled between her breasts. I clench my fists to keep them from shaking and plaster a smile on my face for Anabelle. It's surprisingly easy to feign happiness when deep inside there is only anger and hatred. I could tear her apart, I think. I'm almost tempted to leap over the grave and tear at her neck with my bare hands. I unclench my fists and shake those thoughts out of my head. It's not christian like to harbor such thoughts about my own cousin. Instead, I recite the apostle creed over and over again until I start skip some words and mix up the rest.

Anabelle's hand slides into mine and squeezes hard. She wants comfort but I'm a poor substitute. They are burying an empty coffin. According to Anabelle, the body had been stolen from the mortuary a few hours after his death. The family kept the news secret. She hasn't told me why. I don't need to know why. I'm burdened with the truth and so is Gabriel Prince.

"You're shaking," Anabelle whispers.

"Really," I respond.

"Yes, really. You're shaking like a leaf in a storm," she retorts. "Are you scared?"

"This isn't my first funeral," I tell her.

"It is. You weren't here for Linda's funeral or Isabelle's. Your parents never let you or Isabelle attend any when you were young," she says.

"It isn't my first death," I tell her. "Probably won't be my last."

I slip out of her grip and she finally turns to me. Her eyes are tinged red and her lips are cracked.

"You look horrible," I tell her.

"It's hard to care about looks when your father's corpse is missing," she says.

"I didn't mean it that way," I say.

"Of course you didn't." She turns her gaze back to the undertakers slowly lowering the casket into the grave.

"You didn't show up again after you left with your grand father."

"I was preoccupied," I say.

"With what?" She looks straight ahead and I know she's looking at the very man I've avoiding since I left his house. "Or should I ask, with whom?"

"No one. I'm leaving for Germany soon. I've been parking," I lie.

"You're leaving? Why?"

"I was always going to leave. This was just a visit."

"When?"

"Why did you invite him?" I ask instead of giving her an answer.

"Mr. Priest?"

"Yes. He's having his party tonight regardless of this. You shouldn't have invited him here," I say.

"I'm going to his party why shouldn't he come to mine?"

I laugh loudly at her words and she smiles along with me. The few people present at the funeral turn to look in our direction. It isn't funny but I laugh almost uncontrollably nonetheless. Maybe it's the morbidness of it that makes it humorous to me.

"You're insane," I tell her.

"You're the one who laughed," she says.

We lower our gaze as the bishop utters the final prayers.

"From dust we were made," he says solemnly, " and to dust we shall return."

Indeed. Such is the futility of life. We were made to die.