❝I had a conversation with Death, he wants you back ❞
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At the New Year's Eve party, Quincy Sinclair finds the dead body of Alfred Kingsley III. Resident golden boy and incredibly rich, his death was no accident.
By morning, Quincy sees him again...
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After the shower, I made my way back to my bedroom and threw my dirty clothes into the washing basket. While there, I noticed Kingsley sprawled out on the bed, his gaze trained to the navy folder. The honey-brown of his eyes swam with thoughts and only when I stood over him did he notice I'd returned.
He grabbed my forearm roughly and jolted me forward. Then, with the blue ink pen in his hand, he jotted his name onto my wrist. The letters were neat and easy to read, it threw my heart into overdrive that he remembered.
I escaped from the room that had begun to enclose on me before any more time could've passed. I padded down the stairs, the sleeves of my jumper pulled down past my fingertips. It felt nice to have that soft bounce of the carpet on my bare feet and the warm glow of our house was familiar. I loved my house a lot. For a while, when Mum left, it was difficult to look at it the same but I'm glad we gave it the chance.
It was my safe place.
The shower had freshened me, given me a new canvas in which to see life. Maybe the fact that Charlie and I almost died in a fire would hit me for real by tomorrow, if I reached tomorrow that was. Death was due to arrive tonight and I was still in the dark about what would happen after the wish.
The sound of metal against metal hit my ears and when I walked through the door and into the kitchen, I watched as Dad stirred the tea. The metal spoon clanging against my favourite mug was a sound I'd familiarised myself with and it slowed down my racing heart.
He turned around quickly and walked over to the dining table, placing both his mug and mine onto the wood. Overflowing with tea and steaming from the surface, the scene was so inviting. The television was still on, the sound of a quiz show floated freely as our background noise and Dad sat on the old worn chairs, blowing onto the drink lightly.
I sat opposite and felt his heavy gaze as it followed my every action.
"Did you go anywhere after the funeral?" Asked Dad after taking a sip of tea.
"Yeah, Charlie picked me up and we went to drop stuff off to his friends, then he brought me back here."
Dad nodded enthusiastically, letting the words sink in. He was in his pyjamas, an old top and some tattered joggers. His hair was messy, light strands stuck up everywhere but a smile stretched across his face. It was bright and hopeful, definitely something I needed.
"Charlie Hawthorne?"
"Yeah, that's him," I confirmed.
My stomach clenched with nerves, with Charlie came the Hawthornes came Mum and Amélie Sinclair was not a subject we took lightly here.
"He was a nice kid, I liked him," Dad hummed to my surprise. "Nothing like his father, luckily. Didn't like that man all too much."
The Hawthornes were usually the centre of Mum and Dad's arguments. Well, argument perhaps wasn't the right word to describe it. It was mostly Dad expressing his opinion and Mum shouting, crying and throwing things back. The house was a lot quieter without her.
