by Mia Thompson
* * * * *
Aston was seated between the chief’s five-year-old son, Dylan, and ten-year-old daughter, Gia, at the dinner table for the Thanksgiving feast. The five-year-old stared at him with a finger up his nose, and the daughter complained repeatedly about the cranberry sauce having lumps in it.
“They’re not lumps; they’re cranberries,” the chief’s wife, Mona, replied for the hundredth time.
“They’re good for you,” Aston chimed in. Wasn’t that the sort of thing you were supposed to talk to children about? Health, pacifism, the dangers of teen pregnancy, those sorts of things.
Gia looked him up and down and pouted her lips together in a snort. “Screw you.”
Aston wasn’t shocked by the words that came out from the ten-year old; he raised his eyebrows and nodded. Worse things than “Screw you” certainly came out of his mouth when he was ten.
“Okay, then,” Aston said and nodded to Mona as she passed him the mashed potatoes.
“Apologize to Uncle Aston immediately, Gia, or there will be no dessert whatsoever,” the chief ordered.
Uncle Aston?
“Sorry, Uncle Aston,” Gia said reluctantly and continued to finely separate the cranberries from the jelly substance with her fork.
“Just Aston is fine…really,” he said.
“Uncle Aston, may I have some milk, please?” Dylan asked politely.
Aston took a moment and then passed the carton of milk. Dylan stared at it, then back at Aston, waiting.
“Oh,” Mona said. “Would you mind pouring it for him? He tends to spill.”
Aston frowned and poured the kid his milk. There had been a weird vibe ever since he had set foot in the chief’s cottage-like home. His wife had welcomed Aston as if he were the long-lost family member and said, “It’s so nice to finally meet you. Harold talks about you so much.”
“Who’s Harold?” Aston asked.
Mona laughed heartily and slapped him lightly on the arm, assuming he was joking.
The chief, aka Harold, had come downstairs and greeted Aston with a smile. When Aston reached out for a handshake, the chief walked right past it and gave him a long three-second hug.
If Aston were ever to hug, which was rare, it was a quick one-second hug. Maybe two, if it was someone like his grandmother, but even that was stretching it.
When the chief suggested they watch the football game, Aston was relieved. Football and beer left very little bonding time. But, the chief didn’t shut up at all, talking all the way to half time. Though Aston attempted to tune him out, the chief forced him to listen to the following stories: growing up in Savannah, deciding to become a police officer, meeting his wife, the death of his father followed by the death of his mother, the birth of his oldest followed by the birth of his youngest. Aston could swear he heard something about erectile dysfunction in there but opted to ignore it.
“Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday. How about you, Aston?” Mona asked, passing him the stuffing with a warm smile.
“Sure,” Aston lied, trying to ignore memories of childhood Thanksgivings involving a drunken father passed out and a microwave on fire. As a six-year-old, Aston didn’t know the Thanksgiving dish covered in aluminum foil, that his neighbor Mrs. Nielsen had brought him, couldn’t go in the microwave.
“So, Aston, how are you adjusting? It must be a big change coming from the downtown district to the calm streets of Beverly Hills,” Mona continued.
Aston laid a spoonful of green bean casserole on his plate and passed it to the chief.
“Well, so far all we’ve gotten is a severed finger. Downtown I dealt with murderers, rapists, drug lords, drug dealers, prostitutes, domestic violence. And that’s just a Tuesday. One of my last cases was a man who climbed into bedroom windows while the whole family was sleeping and murdered them one by one, using nothing but a kitchen knife. Like this one,” he said, demonstrating with the knife the chief had used to carve the turkey. “He’d usually start with the children.”
Aston noticed that the mood in the room had changed. There was no scraping of the plates, no drinking, or passing of turkey. The chief glared at him and Mona sat frozen, a fork full of potatoes up to her open mouth. The chief’s daughter looked like she was about to vomit and the five-year-old stared at Aston with tear-filled eyes and a shaking bottom lip. Then the tears rolled down his cheeks and he screamed.
“Mooooooommyyyyyyyyyyyy!”
Mona was quick to react. She scooped him up from the chair, took him to the living room, and turned on a kid’s show starring a sponge in a catholic schoolgirl uniform. Aston looked around at the rest of the party, confused.
“Was it something I said?”
Then, like saved by the bell, his cell rang.
* * * * *
Smelling like vomit, Sapphire stood in front of the mansion staring out into the vast space in front of her.
Maybe it had been her fault. She had hoped and wished for a way out of Thanksgiving dinner and there it was. It had arrived like a genie and made her wish come true. Now, for the first time in years, she wished that she was sitting inside with Vivienne, Charles, his brother Gary, plus family. But she wasn’t. She was standing outside, waiting for the cops to finish going through the house, hoping they would not find her attic and reveal the fruits of her secret life.
The fact that Aston had been following her and was close to stumbling onto her other life had stressed her out, but what she felt right then and there was worse. Life was slipping through her fingers like grains of sand and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
Uncle Gary and his family had arrived just in time for Vivienne to smuggle the caterers out through the back door. She had been running around like a maniac sipping merlot and driving Sapphire crazier than normal. Her mother always got nervous when Charles’ brother was coming to visit, and this time around she’d been climbing the walls.
Gary was about twenty years younger than Charles and a lot clearer, both in body and mind. He was very attentive to the needs of his older brother and Vivienne had to pretend, whenever he came to visit, that she was too. Sapphire would usually have enjoyed her mother being tortured, but not that day; she had too much to think about.
“Happy Thanksgiving!” Gary shouted when they came in through the door.
“Happy Thanksgiving!” Vivienne had shouted back, eager to please.
“Mmmrggg,” Charles replied.
Gary hugged his brother, looked him up and down in the wheelchair to determine health and wellness, and then turned to Sapphire looking surprised.
“You’ve gotten so big! How tall are you now?”
“I’m five-five; haven’t really grown since I was twelve.”
Gary laughed and mussed her hair. Then in came his wife, Heather. She was young enough to be Gary’s daughter and beautiful enough to be Miss Universe. But she wasn’t; she came in third in Miss USA once and that had been the end of her pageant days.
She and Vivienne stared at each other as they did every time they met, eyeing each other up and down, searching for anything—crows feet, a failed nose job, sagging breasts—anything to put themselves at an advantage.
“Vivienne,” Heather said. “Delighted,” she added, giving Vivienne the tips of four fingers to lightly shake.
“Heather,” Vivienne replied and mumbled something that sounded like “always a pleasure.”
Heather ushered her daughter, Petunia, in. She was the same age as Sapphire and wearing a fur coat, leather gloves, a big smile, and shoes that were no doubt made from baby seals. Until recent years, Petunia had been Sapphire’s archenemy. Behind the big smile and the well-educated words, there was pure evil—Sapphire was sure of it.
“Sapphire! Darling!” she called, giving Sapphire a long hug and a few air kisses meant for her cheeks.
They sat down in the living room where Julia served them goose liver appetizers. The conversation was polite and civilized as always. Vivienne fussed over Charles to show what a good and
loving wife she was. Heather shared her opinions on plastic surgery to hide the fact that she had some. Petunia talked about Somalia’s devastating situation, and Sapphire died a little inside for every second that passed.
“So, Sapphire, still no plans for the future?” Gary asked, cutting off all other conversation.
Sapphire looked up at them all as she tucked a napkin of squashed goose liver under the couch pillow.
Finding and capturing the west coast’s most wanted serial killers.
“Um…no…no, nothing yet. Any day now,” she said and crossed her fingers jokingly.
“My Petunia recently became the head of charity for the Aid for Young Organization,” Heather said loudly.
“Sapphire’s a vegetarian.” Vivienne said equally loud but with no effect. It was true but nothing to be proud of, unless they had been at a PETA fundraiser. “And she is about to be engaged to John Vanderpilt III, you know, heir of—”
“Actually, we broke up,” Sapphire said, knowing she just tripped her mother. “And I’m only a semi-vegetarian. I still eat fish and poultry.”
After a moment of silence, Vivienne broke out in laughter.
“No, they didn’t. She’s joking,” she said, smiling. “It’s a joke. Cocktails, anyone? JULIA! COCKTAILS!”
When it was time for dinner, Vivienne stood at the far end of the table like the perfect hostess.
“Dinner will be served in a moment, so if you will all have a seat…except for Charles, of course…he’s already sitting,” Vivienne said nervously, smiling at Charles in the wheelchair. Julia served the food, sneaking in an encouraging pat on Sapphire’s back.
“Still hanging out with the help, I see,” Petunia commented. Then she looked at the rest of the company and smiled. “Not that I mind. I love Mexicans. They’re pretty much like regular people.”
Sapphire watched in awe as the rest of the party nodded their heads in agreement. She heard Julia in the kitchen slamming pots, probably pondering on whether or not to spit in Petunia’s wine glass.
“So, how are you doing?” Gary asked Charles, reaching out to pat his arm.
“He’s doing just lovely, one day better than the next. Happy, happy, happy,” Vivienne said, and then chugged her cocktail. “JULIA…REFILL!”
“Roffk,” Charles said and everyone nodded.
Julia came out and poured Vivienne her refill. She put down a glass of wine next to Petunia and took her old one away.
“Enjoy,” Julia said to Petunia and Sapphire caught a hint of a smirk on her lips.
Sapphire started cutting Charles’ food and feeding it to him when Vivienne stole the fork from under her.
“Thank you, sweetheart, but he likes it when I do it. He’s used to it.”
Sapphire could have sworn Charles looked at her and rolled his eyes, but she wasn’t sure. Vivienne struggled to get the food into Charles’ mouth and got half on his cheek.
Sapphire leaned back in her chair and looked toward the kitchen watching Julia pack up her Thanksgiving dinner into a Tupperware box. She threw on her jacket as she was texting, a smile on her lips. Julia turned to wave at Sapphire then was out the door.
Sapphire’s stomach turned as she chewed her turkey. Since Thanksgiving had always been Vivienne’s way of showing off to her husband’s family, it was the type of holiday that Sapphire and Julia never spent together. Julia would be busy serving the guests and Sapphire socializing. Once the guests had gone home and Vivienne had passed out, however, she and Julia had played cards and eaten leftover sandwiches, ever since Sapphire was a little girl. It was the only thing that got Sapphire through the big day. This Thanksgiving would be the first time Julia wouldn’t be there when it was all over.
“Stupid Antonio,” somebody mumbled. It wasn’t until she saw everyone around the table staring that she realized it was probably she who had said it.
Petunia sipped her wine, holding the glass away from her to look at it. “Hmm, a tad too dry for my taste.”
“Honestly, though, Sapphire,” Gary said. “I think it’s time you start considering what it is you want to do with the rest of your life. I mean, there is certainly the family business. I’m sure Charles would love to have you there.”
Heather choked on her carrot and Petunia’s face whitened.
“Mmmm,” Charles said.
“I…I haven’t really thought about it.”
“Well, think about it. Petunia is going to do her charity till sometime next year and then she’ll come into the family business. I’m not getting any younger and I’d like to retire sometime in the near future. My greatest wish would be for the two of you to be ready when I cannot oversee it anymore.”
Oh, dear God, he wants me to work together with Petunia in an office for the rest of my life.
When an idea struck her mother, it was evident. Vivienne’s eyes popped out and she looked up as if she could see the future play out on a white screen somewhere in the distance. Sapphire knew exactly what her mother was thinking. Not only would she inherit all of Charles’ current money, but her daughter would own 49 percent of his company.
“Honey…” Vivienne whined to Sapphire in a sugary-sweet tone. “You’re not really doing anything; why don’t you go over there and feel it out? How’s this week? This week is great, yes?”
“That’s a lovely idea,” Gary said.
“I don’t think she’s interested, Darling,” Heather said, her fake smile directed at Sapphire. “The Dubois family business is very demanding after all.” She was implying that Sapphire wasn’t really a Dubois by blood, or adoption for that matter, but merely by a legal name change. She did the implying without actually implying it of course. It was an almost invisible stab, which only Sapphire and Vivienne could feel.
“Yes, I don’t think it’s for her. Is it, Sapphire?” Petunia chimed in.
Part of Sapphire wanted to say yes just to screw with the two money-hugging bitches, but the other part couldn’t breathe the mere thought of working there.
“Sapphire.” Her mother pinched her hard on the arm. “Say something.”
“I…ah…”
The doorbell’s ring echoed between the floor and high ceiling of the mansion and Sapphire was saved.
Vivienne stood, dabbed her mouth with the napkin, and excused herself. Her heels clicked over the floor as she disappeared to answer the door.
Gary opened his mouth to continue the conversation and Sapphire sprung out of her seat. “I should go help her…open the door.”
Sapphire made her way through the hallway but heard nothing: no mumbled voices, just silence. Then Vivienne’s horrified scream.
Sapphire didn’t run, didn’t stop; she just kept going at the same pace as before because she already knew what it was. Vivienne was holding a neatly wrapped package in one hand and the lid belonging to it in the other. She turned to Sapphire, her eyes rolled to the back of her head, and she went down on the floor with a thump. The box slipped out of Vivienne’s hand and the contents rolled out on the floor.
Sapphire followed the small trail of dark blood that led to a severed hand missing a fifth finger. The hand was cupped as if clinging to something. Sapphire kneeled down and pried open the closed hand as far as she could. In its grasp lay a small white angel—a ceramic angel, no bigger than a thumb. It wasn’t the traditional angel; it was different—personalized somehow. Sapphire swooped it up and put it in her pocket just as the rest of the dinner party arrived at the front door. As soon as the police got there a sudden nausea struck. Sapphire ran out the door, hand over her mouth, and vomited into her mother’s award-winning roses.
So there she was, smelling like vomit and waiting for the police to find it all.
She let the angel slide between her fingers. The first thing he sent her was a token that belonged to her. The second thing he sent her was not hers, had never been owned by her, and had no significance to her whatsoever. Which meant…it belonged to him.
She hadn’t thrown up because it was a s
evered hand. It wasn’t that her family saw it. It was that it wasn’t what she had hoped for. Before, Sapphire had wanted the girl to be alive so that she could find her, save her. When Aston told her that the finger was cut while she was alive and that they could presume that she still was, Sapphire had struggled not to show her relief. Now she realized that somewhere out there, Shelly McCormick was alive and being tortured, having limb after limb cut from her body. A slew of gruesome images zoomed through Sapphire’s mind, and she felt the turkey dinner rise from her stomach again.
Under normal circumstances, Sapphire went to bed every night knowing that not only did she not hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it, but she also spared countless future young women from horrific and grisly deaths. Because of Shelly, that was no longer the case.
Sapphire leaned over the prized roses and puked her guts out once again.
* * * * *
Shelly’s swollen eyes darted across the room; there was no way to escape. That was it for her; it was where she would die. The ropes tied around her were too tight. Her body was too weak. There were too many factors against her escape and she knew she couldn’t do it. She was underground. There were no windows and she could smell the mildew growing around her in the dampness. The dust particles tickled her nose, but she had so little strength that she couldn’t even think about sneezing. How long had he been gone? A day? Two days? Three hours? She had no idea. Time did not exist in this basement, only fear.
Fear and thirst. She was sure, or at least pretty sure, that he hadn’t given her any water because it was always at the back of her mind; awake, asleep or somewhere in between, water was what she wanted.
Shelly peered over at the leaking faucet, wishing she could make her way over there. It was so close, yet so impossible to get to. The constant dripping sound only made it worse, as though it was mocking her need.
Although, perhaps he had given her some water at some point; she was still alive after all. Or perhaps she hadn’t been away that long? Maybe only hours…or minutes.
Somewhere outside, a car drove slowly through gravel until it finally parked. Drifting in and out of the dark, Shelly felt as though she recognized that sound as though it was something she’d heard a few times before.