There will be some language in this chapter. I don't think it will upset anyone, but this is just a little heads up.

Chapter 3

Tina awoke the next morning, feeling drained. She grabbed her notebook, possibly the only thing keeping her sane, and headed into the kitchen.

Bob was standing in front of the cooker, as if hoping breakfast would make itself, and Linda was nowhere to be seen.

"Morning, Dad," she said quietly.

"Morning, Tina." Bob did not look up from the oven, and she saw that he was holding the Kuchi Kopi mug.

"I think I should go to school today," she murmured. She needed something to feel normal, but she wasn't sure if she could handle the staring.

"You know it's Saturday, right?" he said quietly, still not looking at her.

"Oh," was all Tina said. Gene silently entered the room, and sat down next to her. Bob turned and slid some eggs onto their plates. They hadn't even been cooked. "I'm not hungry," she said, and Bob only nodded, his fixed on the oven again. "Are we – are we gonna open the restaurant today?" she asked.

"No," Bob said, still staring at the oven.

"Okay," she whispered. She didn't know why she asked; it wasn't as if she cared. Tina didn't care if Bob never opened the restaurant again, and she didn't care if he opened it up right that second.

She glanced up at Bob and saw that he was still staring at the oven, and she looked over at Gene, who was looking blankly ahead.

Tina ducked her head, and affixed her gaze to her knees, not knowing what else to do.

Cynthia, Logan, and Tom sat at the breakfast table, all of them silent. Tom had the newspaper beside him, but he wasn't reading it, and Cynthia was clutching her coffee cup so tightly she thought it would shatter, tensely tapping the ceramic with her nails. Logan had his forehead resting in his hand staring down at the table.

"I'm not going to school any more," he said hoarsely.

"Wouldn't expect you to." Cynthia's voice was terse.

"They'll probably beat me up," he said, for what must have been the 100th time, and Cynthia nodded. He'd not gone to school on that Wednesday, and had spent his morning at the Steps.

When he'd found out that Louise had died, he had instantly gone home, not wanting to face anyone's wrath. He'd not left the house since.

"Well, I should get going, or else I'll be late," said Tom, standing up.

"Oh, before you do, I left some bags in the car. Let me just grab them." While Cynthia left, Tom and Logan remained silent, neither of them making eye contact. Tom didn't know what to say; the child was dead, what could he say?

"I wonder what's keeping your mother," he said after a while, heading to the open front door. He saw Cynthia standing on the path in front of the porch steps, looking up at the house. But Tom didn't notice that; he was too busy looking at the car. The windscreen had been smashed, the tyres deflated, and someone had spray-painted "murderer" down the side. "Cynthia?" he covered his mouth in shock, stumbling down the steps. "What -" he turned to see what she was looking at.

Their house had been egged, and the words "killer," and "murderer" had been spray-painted in huge block letters onto every available surface, even the front door. "Oh my God," he whispered, looking horrified. "Who did this?"

"The Belchers; they must have," said Cynthia.

"They couldn't have."

"Yes, they could!" She shrieked. "It's them! I'm gonna call the police!" She shook her head, staring up at the house. "But first, I'll get someone out to clean this up."

"Okay," Tom nodded. "I've gotta get to work, but I'll get someone to fix the car." He kissed Cynthia on the cheek, before calling a taxi. They had another car in the garage, but the vandalised car was parked in front of it.

Cynthia went back inside, deciding not to tell Logan. Well, at least not right away; he'd find out soon enough, but there was no need to tell him now. When she'd eventually told him that a knife-welding Bob had been looking for him, Logan had been understandably terrified.

She sat back down at the table, willing her hands to stop shaking. This was bad, and it was probably going to get worse. Logan couldn't leave the house, and she wasn't so keen on doing it, either. She dreaded to think what would happen when she decided to venture out somewhere.

Pulling out her phone, she pulled up Facebook, intending to let people know, when she saw she had a few missed texts, and she opened them.

'Your son is a piece of shit,' came the first, and her jaw dropped.

'Congrats on raising a killer.',

'Logan better not go outside if he knows what's good for him.'

"What is it?" Logan's voice jolted her from her thoughts.

"Nothing. Just spam," she said, placing her phone back in her pocket. This was something else he didn't need to know.

Okay, Bob and Linda were upset; she understood, she got it. But, sending messages like that was not okay, and she wanted to make sure they knew that. Sending threats was unacceptable, and Cynthia believed that going to the police was the best course of action.

The voice of Olsen Benner on the television caused her to look up, and she saw that the reporter was at Wharf Park.

"Residents continue to lay tributes for little Louise Belcher," she said, standing near the well site, the park long free of the machinery which had taken up residence there for so long. The nine-year-old died three days ago from injuries sustained from being trapped in a well, and locals continue to leave flowers, candles and toys at the spot where she passed away."

The camera panned down to the well, which was surrounded by bouquets of roses and other flowers; teddies, letters, and photos. Cynthia saw several people leaving their offerings, and she hesitated. The police could wait, she decided; she'd give Bob and Linda a little time to get their heads together, and would let them off.

However, she resolved to get it sorted if it happened again.

"Tina, Gene, I think you guys should stay home today," said Bob. They were in the living-room, joined by a disoriented Linda, along with Big Bob, Al, Gloria, and Gayle, waiting for everyone to be ready.

"What? Why?" she asked.

"Well, I just.. don't think it's good for you to be there all day."

"It's good for you," Tina muttered, too numb to be surprised by her answering back. "We're going; we have to see her."

Bob opened his mouth, before closing it. He nodded weakly, and they left to make their daily trip to visit Louise.

Inside the Chapel of Rest, Tina stared at her baby sister. Her baby sister's body. When would it become real, she wondered? Even now, looking down at Louise, it didn't compute. After the.. funeral, they were never going to see her ever again. There would be no more arguing over who would mop the floors, no more witty, smart-aleck responses. There would be no more games of Throw Louise. No more being dragged into her crazy schemes, with them only able to wait until she pulled herself back to reality. No more of anything, because she was gone. Gone forever.

Maybe it was because she looked so peaceful. To casually observe Louise, one would think she was sleeping, never guessing what she had been through before she...

Maybe it was the make-up, Tina thought. Her stomach churned when she remembered that the copious amounts of foundation were covering bruises, eye bags, and blackened limbs. She was struck with a sudden urge to wipe it all off, to see Louise all natural. Louise hates – hated – wearing make-up; Tina should take it off before her sister got mad.

It had become a sort of morbid routine for the Belcher family; every day, they would go to the Chapel of Rest and stay there until it was closing time. They were loathe to leave Louise there on her own. They needed to spend as much time with her as they possibly could. They only had a week left with her.

This time, they had brought some things for Louise. Bob leaned down and placed a photo of the Belcher family on her chest, so that she wouldn't be alone.

Linda produced Kuchi Kopi from her handbag, and Bob gasped quietly.

"Are you sure, Lin?" he asked quietly. "You..." but he trailed off, unable to finish his sentence.

"You'll need it more than she will," continued Big Bob gently.

"No; Kuchi Kopi belongs with her; she needs him," Linda whispered, tucking the night light in the crook of Louise's arm.

Gayle placed the largest jawbreaker she could find under one of Louise's hands.

Lastly, Al and Gloria placed a blanket over her, the one Gloria had bought for her when Louise was a baby. It was a plain white blanket with frilled edges, but Gloria had prettied it up by stitching pink and green ribbon along the edges. They both tucked in the edges as though they was tucking her into bed.

"In case she gets cold," was all Gloria said.

Mort approached silently, respectfully.

"If you want," he began quietly. "I could give each of you a lock of her hair." They all looked at him.

"Her hair?" repeated Linda.

"Only if you want," he clarified. "It's something we offer."

"But.. it's her hair." Bob couldn't fathom Louise having her hair cut; she hated anyone touching her hair. She'd also hated having it long, which was the only reason she allowed – used to allow – Linda to trim it.

"It's completely up to you," said Mort.

"I'd like a lock of her hair," Linda nodded. She needed something, something physical to hold. Something to carry with her forever.

"I do, too," said Tina.

"Can we.. each have some?" asked Bob quietly, and Mort nodded.

"You can all have a piece, and it won't affect the way her hair looks," he told them.

"Okay, thank you," whispered Linda, before turning her attention back to her daughter.

"We do offer something else," said Mort after a while, and they looked at him again. "We could make some plaster casts of her hands, if you wanted?" Bob's breath caught in his throat.

"That's a nice idea," he choked. "I like that. How – how would it work?"

"There are two things we can do. The first one is to place her hand in some plaster of Paris, and it'll look like a circle of clay with her handprint. And the second one is to place her hand into a bucket, and it'll make a mould of her entire hand. That one can be shaped any way you want."

"Any way?" asked Tina, and Mort nodded.

"If you chose that one, we could arrange it, so that you could all hold her hand, and the cast will come out that way."

"Oh, that's nice," Gayle whispered, needing to sit down.

"Have a think about it, and let me know," said Mort.

"I like the idea of us holding her hand; it's like we'd be holding her hand forever," muttered Gloria, and Gayle nodded.

"Could we do both?" asked Tina, and Mort nodded.

"Of course; that's no problem. We could do the hand-holding ones later today, if you want? And then, the casts will be ready in a few weeks."

"Sure," Bob choked.

"Okay, we'll do it today," he said. "I'll get the materials all ready for you for later."

As promised, Mort returned a few hours later with the materials. "What would you like to do first?" he asked.

"Uh... I think the handprint," whispered Linda, tearing her eyes away from her daughter.

"Okay. Well, the Plaster of Paris is ready." He paused slightly. "How many would you like?"

"Can we have one each?" asked Bob. He couldn't bear not having one of his own.

"Of course; that's no problem." As Mort stepped forward, the family shuffled back. Silently, they watched as he lifted Louise's arm, and gently placed her hand into the mixture, spreading the fingers out, and pressing them down. He lifted it out, and wiped it clean, before repeating the process.

When he'd finished, he placed the casts off to one side, before returning to Louise. "I'm going to do the hand casts now," he told them, bringing a bucket over to the coffin. "Who would like to go first?"

"I will," Linda stepped forward, rolled up her sleeve, and took her daughter's hand. Mort placed his hand on her arm, and guided it into the bucket. When Mort gave the word, Linda removed her hand, and cleaned it. Bob stepped forward, and wrapped his hand around Louise's now clean one. Tina hesitated slightly before taking her turn. She'd not touched Louise's hand since.. they first came here. It was still cold, and she wasn't sure if she liked the feeling, and she couldn't help but groan slightly as her hand was placed into the bucket.

"Gene..." Bob gestured for his son to come on up. Gene remained where he was, staring with wide eyes at his little sister. His face was blank, but he had a frightened look about his eyes.

"Gene?" Big Bob made to approach the boy, but Gene moved forward stiffly, slowly approaching the coffin. He gently clasped Louise's hand, his face paling. Gene kept his eyes on the bucket, unable to look at Louise's face.

Once everyone had done their individual hand casts, they all gathered round, and all of them held onto Louise's hand for a family cast. Bob couldn't help but cry as he wiped his hand down, before he and Linda took their baby's hand, for another cast. After that, they were joined by Gene and Tina. They had Louise's hand in the centre, curled into a loose fist, with their hands gently caressing hers.

Then, Al and Gloria had their own casts made, before Gayle had one of her own, and Big Bob had his done, too.

Finally, Louise's hand was put back into the bucket for an individual hand cast, which would then be replicated for every member of the family.

"The sculptures will be ready in a few days," Mort told them, picking up the bucket. "And when you come by tomorrow, I'll give you the locks of hair," he said, before giving them some privacy.

Once again, Cynthia Bush stared in horror as she stood outside her home, holding a small pile of mail. Tears filled her eyes as she looked up at her once beautiful house. Just as before, their home had been egged, and spray-painted. Again, the words, "killer," murderer," "evil," and "27/02/19" stared back her, appearing to taunt her. Cynthia read the date over and over again, before she realised that it was the day Louise had died.

This time, however, the bushes had been ripped up, and scattered about the porch, as had the flowers. The sensor light by the front door had been torn down and smashed, and dog excrement was smeared on the steps.

She'd told Tom that it was the Belchers, and she still believed that, but now she was getting worried.

Seeing her house like this, knowing that there were people out there who wanted to hurt her and her family, was frightening.

Gripping the mail tightly, she went back into the house. Logan and Tom were in the kitchen, and so she sat down in the living-room, and went through the envelopes one by one.

"Bills," she muttered, tossing them aside, before opening the next one.

"Your son is vermin for killing that little girl. How do you feel knowing you raised a murderer? Logan is nothing but a bastard who deserves to be hanged, and he better watch himself when he goes out, and the same goes for you."

Cynthia raised a shaking hand to her mouth as she read the letter, and she picked up the phone. "Hello, police?" she said, once she had been put through. "My house has been vandalised for the second time, and I've got threatening letters in the mail." As the officer spoke to her, Cynthia flipped through the rest of the letters; all of which were threats against her son. She was so shaken that she was barely able to understand what the policeman was saying, but she heard enough to agree to take photographs, and to come down to the station, and file a report. She hung up, her hands shaking.

"Oh, there you are, I was wondering what – what's wrong?" Tom noticed her face. Cynthia said nothing, and held out the letters. As Tom read through them, he paled.

"What should we do?" he asked.

"I'm going to the station, and making a report," she said.

"And then what?"

"I don't know; a fine, or whatever it is they do to vandals."

"Do you still think it was Belchers?"

"Yes. It must be. They're upset, I get that, but this isn't going to help."

"What isn't gonna help?"

Tom and Cynthia looked up to see Logan in the doorway. Tom quickly hid the letters behind his back.

"... Look outside," was all Cynthia found she could say. Logan gave them a confused look, but nonetheless did what he was told. As soon as he was gone, the parents exchanged looks, and Logan came in, a look of shock upon his face.

"Who did that?" he asked quietly.

"The Belchers," said Cynthia, putting the hate letters into her purse.

"Well, we don't know for sure," said Tom reasonably, "we only think so."

"Who else would vandalise our home?!" his wife snapped. "And why? There's no one else it can be!" she finished, storming out of the house, and to the second car.

Before too long, she found herself in an office of the Oceanside Police Station, with two officers, explaining everything that had happened.

"Well, thank you for coming down here, ma'am," said one of the officers when she had finished talking.

"I'd like some of your men to be patrolling my street; I'd feel a lot safer," she said, while filling out the forms required.

"Well, ma'am, our officers do go out on patrol, but I'm afraid we can't have them on your street 24/7," one officer told her.

"Why not?"

"We don't have the resources."

"But my family is being targeted!" Cynthia sputtered.

"Ma'am, do you have any suspects that you think did this? Because if so, we can go and have a talk with them."

"Yes; I believe the Belchers did it."

Upon hearing that, both officers looked up at her.

"The family of the little girl who died are vandalising your home, is that what you're saying?"

"Yes."

"And do you have any evidence that it's them? Any videos, photos?"

"Well, no; but we'll be installing cameras after this. But I really do think it's them; who else would do something like this?"

"I don't know, ma'am, but we will go over and have a talk with them. If they are the ones doing this, then we can put a stop to this. And if it's not, then we can discuss further options."

"What further options?!" Cynthia spat. "My family are living in fear! My son can't go out; he's afraid of what will happen to him! What about the letters?"

"If we can find out who sent them, then we can charge them, as it's harassment. If it continues, you can take it to civil court."

"Do you have insurance?" asked the other officer.

"Yes, they helped us the last time."

"Okay, that's helpful; be sure to keep copies of the forms they give you, as you'll probably need them in the future."

"I will."

"Okay, thank you again for coming down, ma'am; we'll look into this right away."

The Belchers remained at the Chapel of Rest until closing time, as usual, and they silently left. Leaving was one of the hardest things for them; leaving Louise all alone there, especially since they were just next door; so close.

This time, however, there was a crowd outside their door. Bob stared at them; he felt like he should know who they were, but he was struggling to place any of them. He did notice that all of them were holding large platters, and bowls, and, upon closer inspection, they appeared to be casseroles, cakes, and other such things.

"Bobby!" called a familiar voice, and someone he was sure he knew, wearing a blue shirt and grey beanie, stepped up to him. "Bobby!" the man repeated, pulling him into a tight hug, which Bob did not return. The only person he wanted to hug was his youngest daughter. The others were talking to him, as well, surrounding him and his family, but they might as well have been speaking gibberish.

Somehow, he found himself back upstairs in the apartment, sat on the sofa, with what seemed like half the town squished inside. "Bobby, we're all worried about you," said Teddy, sitting next to him. "We're worried about everyone."

The group of friends spread out through the living-room, while the ones who had brought food took their items to the kitchen. The Belchers now had enough food to see them through the week, and possibly beyond that. Wanting to avoid saying the wrong thing, they were mainly silent. None of them knew quite what to say, anyway; nothing like this had ever happened before. Seymour's Bay was a small town; practically everyone knew everyone else, and even Edith and Harold couldn't remember any children dying at such a young age, nor in the way Louise had.

All those words of supposed comfort; 'she's in a better place now', 'you'll feel better soon' absolutely did not need to be said; they would not help at all. The Belchers needed support, and that was not the way to go. They couldn't even spare the poor family a bit of consolation and say, 'at least she didn't suffer', because Louise had suffered throughout those five terrible days, and everyone knew it.

Bob couldn't focus on Teddy's voice. Next week, he would be burying his daughter, his baby. In seven days, he would have to say goodbye to her forever. He'd never see her again, he would never speak to her again. And then what was he supposed to do? Bob swallowed; seeing Louise every day was quite perhaps the only thing keeping him sane. When she was gone, buried... he was afraid of what was going to happen.

"... So, anyway," said Gretchen, "if there's anything we can do, just say the word."

"Thanks," he croaked, clenching his fists on his knees, the feeling keeping him grounded.

"When is the funeral?" asked Mickey.

"It's – it's," Bob found he couldn't speak.

"It's next Saturday at 11am," said Tina, and they looked at her. "You can all come," she added quietly.

Tina looked around as the adults gathered around them. She recognised lots of people; Marshmallow, Mike the mail man, Critter, Mudflap, Reggie, Art the artist, Patricia the sandwich lady. Lots of adults, but no kids, and she couldn't think why.

She could sense them staring at her, itching to ask how she was doing, and so she quickly excused herself, and retreated to her room. She waited a few moments before closing the door, knowing that Gene would follow, and he did. "I have an idea, Gene," she said. "We can each write a letter to Louise. A letter about anything. And then, when we next go and see her, we can.. we can give it to her. How does that sound?" Tina felt guilty for not bringing anything for Louise; but she'd had trouble finding the perfect thing. Now she realised a letter would be good.

She turned to face him. Gene had sunk down on the edge of her bed, just staring ahead of him. It worried Tina; how long before they should be really worried? What if Gene never spoke again? "Gene?" she said softly, walking over to him. "Do you want to write a letter to Louise?" Nothing. "Gene?" Sitting down, she hugged him tightly. After a while, he hugged back. "Shall we write our letters?" she asked. Gene didn't nod, or shake his head, but he followed her to her desk, and sat beside her.

Tina wasn't sure what she had in mind when she began her letter; she didn't plan anything out. She wrote down the things she'd always wanted to say to Louise, but had never gotten the chance. She wrote of how she would always remember her, and would think of her every day. Tina quickly filled two sheets of paper on both sides, as did Gene. "We'll read them later," she said, knowing that she didn't have the strength to read through hers, let alone Gene's.

They re-emerged a short while later, to find that everyone had left, and Tina breathed a slight sigh of relief. She could hear parents voices coming from the kitchen, along with the voice of that Nadia lady, talking to them.

"Are you kids okay?" asked Big Bob, and Tina nodded.

"We just, uh, wrote some letters to Louise," she said.

"That's nice," he said, smiling lightly.

"We're going to give them to her tomorrow."

Big Bob only nodded, unable to look at them. There came a knock at the door, and he went to answer it.

As it had been over the past three days, the television was still off. Tina was afraid of what she would see if she turned it on, but, at the same time, she also wanted some mindless background noise to fill the awful silence that permeated throughout the apartment. She knew she couldn't bear to see anything to do with Louise, and so she left it off.

Big Bob returned, followed by two policemen.

"Wait here, please," he gestured for them to sit, which they did, and Big Bob left the room, coming back not long after with Bob and Linda. Tina eyed the two officers curiously, wondering what they wanted.

"Hello, Mr and Mrs. Belcher," began officer McCarthy gently, taking in their ragged appearances. "I know this is a difficult time for you, but we have a few questions."

"What?" Bob ran his hand through his unruly hair, while Linda just sank into the armchair. The two officers rose, and offered Bob the sofa.

"Are you aware that Cynthia Bush's home has been vandalised?" asked officer McCarthy, as Bob sat down. Bob only shook his head. Already, they could tell that it wasn't Bob and Linda who had done it, just judging on how out of it they were, but they still had to ask the questions.

"What happened?" asked Big Bob.

"Well, the Bush family home has been spray-painted, their car has been defaced, and there has been excrement put on their steps. They've also gotten threatening letters, and texts. This is the second time it's happened," explained officer Powell. "They're.. claiming that you did it," he finished. Now, they were all staring at him.

"What?" Linda looked up, her head falling onto her shoulder.

"That's why we're here; to get your side of the story."

"We didn't do it," said Bob, his head in his hands.

"All right, sir, is there anyone, outside of family, who can corroborate your story?" asked McCarthy delicately. Bob's head whipped up, his haunted, dull eyes looking at the officer.

"We've been visiting my daughter in the funeral home," he hissed, "all day, every day; you can ask Mort next door. I don't care about the Bushes; I don't care what happens to them. We're spending time with Louise."

"Thank you, sir; we'll go next door and check. Thanks for your co-operation." The two officers said their goodbyes, and left.

After the policemen had shown themselves out, the family sat there in silence, unable to speak.

~ X ~

Done. What did you think? I really enjoyed bringing Cynthia and Logan back.