I stood, letting the burning hot water pour over me, still unable to catch my breath. I looked up at the white tile ceiling, trying to slow my breathing down to an acceptable speed, but only breaking into deeper sobs. I slid down the shower stall wall and sat on the bottom of the tub, pulling my knees into my chest. I had attended my father's funeral, not even two hours ago, after not seeing him for the better part of a year.
Another sob racked my body as I thought about the last argument we had, when I had visited him last December, right before Christmas. It was a stupid fight, really, something about my mum, but we were both too hard headed to apologize. Now look what happened. I never got to say I was sorry and never got to say goodbye. I reached up and turned the knob on the shower and felt a fresh surge of scalding water hit my toes, my knees, my back.
I closed my eyes, the words of the two gossiping women from the funeral flooding my mind, "Closed casket, heard it was too gory to be shown." I groaned, trying to not imagine how the corpse of my father had looked. I was grateful that my brother had offered to identify him, as I was sure I wouldn't be able to face the accusing stares this morning if I had. I knew what they were thinking, I knew that they thought that he had been murdered- that it hadn't been an accident. Why wouldn't they? It made a better story, even if their theories didn't have substantial evidence to back it up.
Honestly, I didn't know what to believe, but I wasn't going to start making more theories for the rumor mill, it had enough old harpies to keep it going for a while. I stood up and turned the water off with a sharp twist and stepped out onto the soft, green bath mat I had placed in front of my shower. I dug my clean toes into the fuzz and sighed, letting some of the anger go. Today had been long and I had the feeling that the days to come would be even longer.
A family friend had suggested that I put the questions to rest by truly figuring out what had happened. Mike had even offered to help, giving me the number of someone he knew. Dad had always trusted Mike, having worked with him years before, but I didn't know what to believe. Hell, even Scotland Yard had said it was a "Very bizarre case", their reports coming up inconclusive, but trying to give my family some closure by saying it was "Probably an accident, anyway."
I wrapped my terry cloth dressing gown around myself and wiped off the mirror with a hand towel, then drying my already dry face off. I looked at my reflection, noting the dark shadows highlighting my hazel eyes and how my face appeared thinner than it had last Friday. I put my palms on the counter before me, leaning forward a bit, inspecting each and every pore. Was I going to be able to get past this, without ever knowing the truth? Was I going to be able to have fun, laugh, date, raise a family, start my own life or anything without regret and heartbreak forever shadowing everything?
I rubbed my tired eyes and reached for the hallway door, wrenching it open. I started for the living room, turning on the lamp on the end table as I went. I grabbed my purse off of the coffee table and backed up into the couch, letting it catch me as I flopped down. I quickly started to rummage through it's contents. My fingers brushed everything until they finally settled on the precise piece of garbage I had been looking for- a used napkin with a name, address and phone number on it. The paper read: Sherlock Holmes, 221B Baker St. London (555)592-3094