Part 2
" 'Can't repeat the past?' he cried incredulously. 'Why, of course you can.' "
-The Great Gatsby
The hot, dense air of the unbearable New York night crept into Paige's apartment under a window that had been left slightly a jar. The occasional stifling breeze that managed to slip past now and again blew the lace curtains, which lay on either side of the window, carelessly and teasingly. Excited chattering, low weeping, helpless screaming, and the dull roar of cars pounding away at the pavement, murmured and swelled below, twining through the desperate darkness, seeking release from the despair that was life in the city.
A raven, grown weary and tired from its desperate flight across the land, landed on one of Paige's stone windowsills. It measured and scanned the inside of the apartment with tiny, black eyes that were bulging from a fixed point above its' curved, sharp beak. It fluttered about restlessly until, moments later; it took to the open skies where it would languidly sail for hours upon end in a cool air current and then, once again, would take residence on some other hapless person's sill.
The ancient, black phone that hung loosely from the far wall of the apartment began to ring shrilly, over and over, not knowing that Paige wasn't home- that in fact she would never be home again.
Some woe-begotten soul slipped a twenty under the door and knocked twice, two sharp tattoos of noise that resonated through the building. When no one answered, they left, their confusion mixing in the air like something tangible and hollow.
"It's something wonderful, you know? To finally be going there is just…" The faint, hasty flow of conversation floated like a melody into the apartment, up and over in a sinuous fashion that bespoke of hope and death and love all blending together seamlessly. It was what Paige had loved when she was alive, the echo of human words whispered and shouted in emotion as they passed by her on their journey, never-stopping. Sometimes, when she had felt too sick or disgusted to go out, she would lie on her exhausted, sagging bed and listen- just listen. You could hear all the tragedies and comedies of the world if you just lay still and listened.
A hand moved in the dark. Someone's light breathing and quick movements flashed in the apartment, disrupting the tantalizing stillness. A heart trembled in fear, beating itself slowly to death, counting down the precious seconds until it would stop forever. Hurt blossomed in a mind, unbelievable pain and anguish that was unforgivable weight. A small sigh escaped well-formed lips, pressing itself into the air, unseen and unheard. The shadow- that was what it sometimes thought of itself- slid like silver against the wall, looking and searching much as the raven had done not even an hour before.
When it found the pictures, cozily snug in a night-stand beside a bed, a gleeful smile broke like freezing sunshine on the mouth, giving an absurdly neon glow to the face. It hugged the pictures tight to its icy, wounded chest and laughed childishly.
The shadow would never be caught. The shadow would never be caught. The thought turned over and over in its' mind preying like a hidden disease upon the remaining sanity.
And then, smoothly and quietly, the last hope of redemption for Paige Sullivan slipped out the window and into the alluring, deadly night.
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The madness of grief began to quell in the heart of Monique LaSaris. When one lost a brother, a near and dear soul to which one pledged life and allegiance, one was allowed sadness, bereavement if you will, and tears, shiny, crystalline tears. All of those were expected of Monique, and yet, they did not come. There was heaviness in her heart, but her smooth, bright face showed not an inkling of loss.
Monique had a bright face. It was full of brightness, sad but sweet, like silk trapped in honey on a winter's day. Her mouth was her best feature, it was sculpted nicely and it was very passionate, it had a drive to it that no one has ever possessed before and will not possess again. And even though she learned her brother was dead and his murderer also slain, the brightness did not go away. It remained on her, radiating with fresh vulnerability in the dim, sallow lights of the police station.
She looked like a fish out of water sitting in the grimy, desolate downtown police station that reeked of hearts breaking and loss wearing an expensive, little evening gown in a creamy, off-white color that made her look heavenly in this over-worked hell. Wisps of straight, blonde hair as fine and lovely to the touch as delicate lace framed that expressive face, and it fell to just a little below her shoulders in casual relief. Her tiny, pretty hands were clasped tightly together in her lap, and the cold, dripping jewels that adorned nearly every finger caught the light and sparkled in quiet hopelessness.
A tall, well-built man in his early thirties lit a cigarette and sat down wordlessly next to her. He was dressed nicely, like the woman, in the formal black tie style that signified wealth and power. His sharp, aristocratic face held a slightly bored expression on it, mingled briefly with disgust and contempt. His dark hair was neatly styled and cut quite ruthlessly which lent him an almost military look. When he spoke, his voice was quick and low and reminded some of snow falling on ice.
"Do you want me to get some tea? Or coffee?" He glanced idly at his wife, and took a slow drag on the cigarette, seemingly savoring every last bit of smoke.
"No, I'm quite all right, Jack." Monique's voice was like a harmonious, contradictory symphony. It was ecstatically soothing, pitching forth its divine rhythm to ingratiate itself faithlessly into the heart of the listener.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"And there's nothing you need?" Jack leaned back in the seat, keenly studying the events passing by around them. "Nothing at all?"
"No, Jack." And with those simple words, Jack sensed that Monique was slipping away from him, and if he didn't do something quickly, she would become forever unattainable and unreachable.
"Monique, I…" He trailed off as he looked into her face, distant and electrified with some inner vitality. Without saying another word, he untangled her hands and clasped one firmly in his own.
Monique looked at their joined hands, needing to believe in what it signified. She smiled wanly and looked over at Jack, a thin film of unshed tears coating her eyes.
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At the edge of Hollenbrooke, where the city lights dimmed to a slender, fragile web of light and the pavement gave away to the fresh greenness of the grass, there was a neighborhood that was known by all as The Millionaire's Circle.
Divine, many-colored mansions rose from their foundations up to the sky, nicely manicured lawns adorned the ground, and the semi-hysterical laughter from some obscure dinner party trickled out onto the streets, giving an air of richness and privilege to the night.
This was a neighborhood not many had seen, save the ones bored and special enough to buy a home within its discriminating gates, and for Riley Lennox, a boy who grown up living in virtual poverty, it was nothing short of a miracle that he had made his home here. In fact, his home was one of the most elegant and lovely of all the elegant and lovely houses in The Millionaire's Circle.
It had a gracious thing, moving into the neighborhood, a relishing thing that tasted as sweet and alive as he imagined revenge would taste. The people that revered him today, the powerful businessmen and their sensuous, cashmere clad wives, would have, little less than a decade earlier, never have given the simple street urchin he had been another thought. They would have gracefully floated by, perhaps dropping a coin or two his way, and then continued on into the secretive, heavily veiled world of the rich. It was gratifying in more ways than one to know that he had now found a way into that world, and no one was the wiser.
He stood in the darkness of his bedroom, dressed in the remnants of a formal suit that he had worn to some wasteful, after-hour engagement that he invariably deplored, deep in his own world. He had passed a hand through his hair, ruffling and mussing the thick, mahogany layers that had once been styled into placidity.
"Mr. Lennox," the idyllic, southern comfort voice of his secretary, Madelyn, arrogantly pushed their way into his thoughts and dissolved them cruelly. "I have Margo Sullivan on the line." She smiled with the cold beauty of the lamia, and then stepped outside his room with practiced ease.
He followed her, but before he completely exited the room, he walked briefly over to the mantelpiece and picked up a picture that was resting serenely on it. Trapped inside the picture was a young girl with fine hair as blonde as sunbeams and a passionate, vital mouth. He let his gaze linger there, slowly taking in ever feature of her face like a dying man looking for salvation.
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