Thigh Highs, Dead People, and a Whole Lot of Lying

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"I did not attend his funeral, but I sent a nice letter saying I approved of it." ~Mark Twain


Three days later, V.C. stood in the dingy alcove of Westman and Sons Funeral Home and wished she was anywhere else.

So far, Silvia's funeral was everything a funeral should be.



And absolutely, thoroughly and utterly one hundred and ten percent boring.

Like super boring.

Like "stab yourself in the foot with an umbrella just to have something to do" sort of boring.

And as someone who had spent the majority of her childhood in the corner, V.C. could categorically say this was one of the most boring times in her life.

Honestly, there had been no drama, no grievous wailing or crying. No one had even tried to dramatically throw themselves into Silvia's grave after her coffin.

The only noise during the long, drab service had been a few sniffles from the back. But they were so few and far in between, that V.C. fully believed that it had more to do with the cold weather and less to do with sadness.

There weren't even any frowns among the funeral goers.

But, then again, that might have something to do with the amount of Botox in the room than a lack of facial muscles.

Thank goodness Jack hadn't forced her to go to the wake the night prior.

Slade Emblem had been there and she heard from Will that he had had some choice words for Jack.

Had even tried to throw a punch.

V.C. doubted she would have been able to keep a straight face through that.

Even if she had a plethora of Botox injections prior.

Even now, lurking in the corner of the funeral home, she could feel the cringe pasted across her face. The abundance of stiff lily bouquets did little to stifle the heavy cloud of lingering death but instead heightened it. 

The dingy lights showcased the velvet wall to wall red carpets, complete with worn patches and disturbing stains.

Especially since her thigh highs were riding up uncomfortably high. And the bottom of her black dress was wedged up in some unmentionable places from sitting down for so long. 

She hated the clingy nylons almost as much as she hated funerals. It figured that those two would go hand in hand.

With some discrete wiggling and a quick glance around, she pulled the hem back down to her knees without flashing anyone in the process.

Well. Hopefully not flashing anyone. That was probably on the 'no-no' list in terms of funeral etiquette.

Just as she straightened back up, Jack sidled up beside her and drew close to her elbow.

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