by Therin Knite
“And to think, if you’d just fessed up and told the truth about Brennian from the get-go, you wouldn’t be sitting here right now.”
“I was going to tell you! The dragon thing interrupted us.”
“I gave you ample time. You waited until the last second. That’s not my fault.” The mockery is cold, even for me, but I’m not in the mood to attempt niceties. “You’re looking at twenty to thirty for your antics, you know?”
Her forehead falls to her knees, and she sniffles. “I don’t see why they can’t execute me instead.”
Disgust claws up my throat, burning the back of my tongue. This pathetic woman would rather go out in a haze of drugs, where she can pretend until the last possible second that she’s a deserving high-class goddess wronged by society, than face the reality of her crimes. I reach out and pat Briggs hard on the shoulder. “Good luck with your favorite kind of criminal, sir. See you around.”
The former Lady Svipul knows nothing and is nothing in terms of the man behind Brennian, the man out to get me, the man out to wreak havoc in a world convinced dreams are still the harmless fantasies of children and the unfulfilled desires of adults. Heterochromia lady, in the end, is but another shiny bauble designed to distract me from the more important details.
I turn to bolt for the cellblock door, but a half-hearted shoulder grab interrupts my exit. “I hope I see you around, Adamend. I know I’ve told you this before, but the more secretive an agency, the more dangerous it tends to be, especially when its adversaries exhibit an equal level of secrecy.” Briggs’ eyes remain transfixed on Williams, but he taps with two fingers the exact spot where he shot me the night of that dreadful alleyway chase. Sorry, he doesn’t say. “Be careful, Adamend,” he does.
It’s not until the cellblock door clanks shut behind me that I mutter, “Yes, sir.”
All evidence of Victor Manson’s death is scrubbed off the landscape of Pennimore Street by Wednesday morning. Another single upper-class worker—a young female business baron in training—bought his house the minute the listing went up, got approval from the city to destroy what remained of the evidence from Manson’s murder, and called two companies to better the property: one to put in a swimming pool, and another to tear down his ugly fence.
She’s busy moving in her belongings when I stroll by in the early morning hours less than a week after all hell broke loose in my life. I pass by her moving truck as she directs a team of men and women hauling large boxes into the house. We share a short wave—she thinks I’m a neighbor—and I keep walking.
My journey doesn’t end until I reach Larry’s. The convenience store doesn’t open until eight, so I park myself near the door and watch. I watch residents still shaken from the death of an insufferable lawyer get in their cars and go to work for another six to nine hours. I watch children yawn as they wait at the end of their driveways for the school bus to ship them off to boring math and science classes. I watch Pennimore Street come to life as if a dragon never tore through it and burned its tranquility to a crisp. I watch it remain in one serene piece and not disintegrate under the strain of a failing dream.
I watch Dynara Chamberlain cross the road from the corner I’ve come to know so well and situate herself beside me, black umbrella in hand. “Long way to come for coffee,” she says.
“Not too long.”
“You get the closure you needed?”
“Who said I needed closure?”
“Everyone needs closure,” says the girl with the umbrella under the sun. “Even me. It’s how we prepare ourselves to move on to the next phase of our lives.”
A blue OPEN sign comes to life in the store’s window, and a young man at the register beckons for us to enter.
“I guess the next phase of my life is working for EDPA.”
“If that’s what you want,” she says, twirling her umbrella.
“You know it’s what I want,” I say, opening the door. I let her into the store ahead of me, cast one last look at Pennimore Street, and step inside. “So, when do I start?”
The Story Continues
IN EPITAPHS
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About Therin Knite
Therin Knite was born and raised in backwoods Virginia, USA. Currently in her mid-twenties, Therin holds a degree in English and Finance from the College of William & Mary and recently retired from the hustle and bustle of Washington, DC to return to the homeland and pick up the quiet writing life.
Therin spends most of her time (when she's not writing) dreaming up new story ideas, studying Japanese, and slowly reading through the several-hundred-book backlog in her budding home library. If she's not occupied with any of those things, then you can probably find her playing with her two cats or lurking in the shadows of various social media websites.
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