Talk To Me

20 || The Sky Knows What We Did

You know how sometimes the weather matches the mood of the day? Today was one of those days.

The gray sweeping over the blue in the sky, the chilling breeze and the low, flickering sunlight blended into a perfect depiction of the heartfelt sorrow and shock at Adrian Giles Wallerstein's funeral. But to me, it felt bittersweet. The high had come and gone; revenge truly is a dish best served cold, but your stomach still feels empty after you devour it. Triumph didn't possess me, but rather stealthily swooped over my head, reminding me that even though hard work could last a decade, victory barely lasts a second.

Little Bobby looked adorable and heartbreaking in his little suit with his little blue tie as he scampered forwards on his little shoes and grabbed a handful of dirt with his little hand and tossed it into his father's grave. The black-clad crowd around me continued providing the soundtrack of low murmurs, sobs, whispers and tears. The remaining Wallersteins were the center of attention. Lila's tears had soaked the front of her mother's dress, and her mother had worn three-inch heels despite her inability to stand upright due to shaking like a leaf.

The third funeral I was attending in just a month; that had to be some kind of record. At least in this one I wasn't alone. Collin stood by me, doing his best to stifle his yawns—he still hadn't caught up on his sleep. He looked confused and wary, not the ideal expression for someone attending a funeral but of course he didn't look sad, he didn't get why he had to be sad, he didn't get whether it was appropriate or not to be angry instead, and frankly, I don't think he got why we were even here at all.

Why were we here? Because we had to be here. The man who had murdered my father had died. But he hadn't died by rightful justice. He hadn't died because he was sentenced to death. No, he died after a coward's confession. Not attending the funeral would show my rage towards him; a burning rage that might be...motive, for me to stage his suicide.

The body had been taken to the morgue, cleaned up, searched for traces; to my relief, it hadn't revealed anything. The rope hadn't left any bruises on his neck, nor had the handcuffs. The green cloth—spandex—hadn't left behind strands on his eyelids or his temples. And I hadn't touched Adrian with my bare hand, not once. The latex gloves had made sure of that. And even though I'd rubbed the gun over nearly every inch of Adrian's sweaty and trembling face, they wouldn't have found any gun residue. Because that gun was brand new. I'd never fired it, not once. Truly, just locked and loaded.

And as for tying the rope up onto the beam? Well, forensics might show a few telltale, invisible strands of coir around his neck. That would be easily explained once they saw the hanging noose. He'd tried to hang himself, failed; chickened out, and hence, thought of bidding farewell in a more creative, more specific, more significant way.

So then Adrian's very much lifeless body had been dressed in a suit chosen by Chelsea, put in a coffin, looked on over by mourners and now buried well underground but I wasn't going to ignore Michael Emerson's sound advice just because my stupid father had. I, murdered a man. I should always, always be on the lookout. And I knew there were detectives back at the lake-house, searching and combing for anything amiss.

They'd find what I wanted them to find: Adrian's snot and tears and sweat all over my Mum's sheets, her dresser, her perfumes; his fingerprints on the larder and the bottle of poison and the glass and the wine. But maybe if they searched harder, they would find things I didn't want them to find: a strand of my hair, the footprint of either my heels or my trainers, a few fibers of my cotton shirt. Fiber analysis is inconclusive, not as strong an evidence as DNA, and the cotton shirt I'd worn was exhaustingly common. Still. You never knew. Those meddling detectives could get lucky. After all, when the FUCK, has LUCK, been on MY side?