The Girl Who Kept Running

17. The Boy Who Went Fishing

24 September, 2050

Fast walks had been his friend in the past. 

A fast walk would reduce the time it took to reach Ishimoro's house by seven minutes exactly. But the steps--angry, impatient beats on the treadmill of life--could not keep her away. 

He wanted to have a reason to be angry with that girl. He wanted to latch onto a strong emotion outside of his past, located other than the rotting bug-crawling mess of his family disaster. 

And she had given him one.

Roxie Bedelia. Who adopts an alias like that? He could see the wink, loathe, the defiance of her station in life in the selection of this name. Challenging someone to deduce the deal with her. 

And what the hell was she doing in the cabinet where he usually hid the blue file when in a hurry? The hair he had found there coiled around a splinter was too long. It was the same length as her hair and same color too: jet black. 

Shiny and silky, curving sensually under his touch… 

He wanted to kiss it first then pull the hair out of her head in a rage. 

Despite the burns, he had willed himself to clean the mess he had created before he left to fetch Brian. Guerro had texted him about Jorge's funeral and Harry wanted Brian to attend as well. As soon as he plunged under the sink to reach the cleaning supplies stowed away in the farthest cabinet, he found the lone black strand. 

He put off the cleaning, compulsively checked every nook and corner where anything of value was stored--mostly the locked chambers among the shelves.

Nothing seemed out of the order. But he had a feeling Brian's papers had been rearranged. And his laptop was not exactly aligned to the side panel the way he did, every freaking time. 

Good thing he had replaced Timothy Ross's label with an anagram. What the hell could she have been nosing around for? 

He needed to come up with a plan.

***

They looked into each other's eyes across the gathering. 

Sheila's held a lingering plea, ever since Harry had approached her and hugged her in consolation, before letting Brian extend his greeting. It was a refusal to let go of the soothe she once found in the arms of this young, vivacious, unofficial ward of her late husband. Harry's eyes, in response, held a firmness, a strength he wanted to bequeath unto the widow by calmly signaling his rejection. 

He had grown up and just lost his beacon. He may once have been the ignorant predator that feeds on carrion after stabbing the honorable dead. But now he had to uphold a multitude of dignities. The dignity of the departed, of the never-acquired promise to look after the bereaved, of his own character, self-respect, and maturity.

The park was nice; it was a local church. Jorge's friends had some trouble securing a grave here as the church relied on donations from big patrons hard on the issue of homelessness. Then Guerro shamed them into acquiescence with Jorge's volunteering credentials as a caretaker for local veterans in his better decades. 

Ceremonially, things were going smooth. Lifeless clay had been usurped by live soil in the lap of mother earth. Condolences were being traded across like not too sweet, not too salty pastries, when the mood of the congregation is benevolent. Harry looked around the gathering - Kingfisher hadn't bothered to show up. Not that he had expected the recluse to be here.
Or, had no one bothered informing him yet? Harry certainly hadn't.

Harry bided his time until he saw the widow's brothers leave her free to mingle again. Brian was surrounded by children from the shelter who knew Harry well enough and had heard a ton about the new kid with disfigured legs. But they had a friendly spirit, so encouraging Brian to make more friends, Harry weaved his way between the guests.