Chapter 31:

Vincent was in his workshop, working on a small wax sculpture of his mother's that needed repainting. He heard Bo's shouts echo through the hallway connecting the Sinclair house to the House of Wax and jumped up, thinking something had happened. The sculpture shattered on the floor, but Vincent took no heed. Grabbing a couple of extra knives from a table, he hurried through the hallway to the house.

He couldn't decide if he was relieved or worried when he walked into the living room to see Katrina sitting on a chair, her head in her hands, and Lester standing beside her, looking sheepish with his head down and his hands in his pockets. Bo was pacing in front of the two, shouting something incoherent about windshields and broads and insane psycho bitches.

It seemed like hours before Bo finally ran out of things to say to his brother.

"And anyway, Lester, you mother fucker, you should have known better!" Bo finished. He glared at the man one last time before pointing towards the door. "Now get!"

The moment Lester stalked out, shamefaced, Bo rounded on Katrina.

"What the fucking hell is the matter with you, Katrina? Are you fucking stupid or just God-damned insane?"

She rolled her eyes. "Nothing's the matter with me. I just had some fun, that's all. You're the one who told me about doing it to that Jennifer girl."

"Not in front of fucking witnesses!" Bo wheezed, losing his breath because he was so angry. "Don't you ever fucking do that again, Kitten, or I'll wring your scrawny neck my fucking self!"

"We aren't even sure if it's a fucking person that was in the car! It may have been a dog!"

"Don't be stupid! You need to realize that what you did can't happen again!"

"You're just mad 'cause you weren't there."

"That's not why I'm fuckin' pissed off at you!"

"You know I hate it when you lie to me!"

"I'm not lying and you fucking know it! I'm telling you not to ever do anything like that again! Do you fucking understand me, woman?"

Vincent stared wide-eyed from one to the other, a little worried about what was going to happen. Bo looked absolutely livid, his face was red and his teeth were clenched. On the other hand, Katrina looked as cool as ice. Unless, of course, a keen observer noticed her throbbing temples and narrowed eyes.

Not knowing who was going to blow first, Vincent took a few steps away from both.

"Go fuck yourself, Bo! I don't have to listen to you or anyone else!"

"You'll stay away from Lester's if you can't behave yourself! If the cops would have been called out there . . ."

"They didn't! So what's the problem?"

"If the fuckin' authorities get wind of this place, Katrina, then we're shit out of luck, aren't we?" he shouted.

"Fuck you, Bo! Like the cops aren't going to find out about the barn sooner or later!" Her eyes widened and she glanced over at Vincent.

Bo's eyes narrowed. "Fuckin' Katrina!"

"Oh fuck you and go to hell, Bo Sinclair!" she screamed.

"God damn insane psycho bitches!" Bo shouted as he watched Katrina storm out the door. "What the fuck is up with her?" he asked Vincent angrily.

Vincent held up his hands, just as surprised at Katrina's outburst as Bo was. He walked out onto the porch, looking out over Ambrose, giving her some time to cool off before he went to her. When he finally did go down to his workshop, Katrina was sitting on the bed, her back to the wall. She glared at him as he came in and sat at his painting.

"I'm not sorry and I'm not apologizing," she insisted before turning away.

Tucking her knees under her chin, Katrina sat with her arms around her legs, gazing into a candle flame. He watched her unobtrusively . . . glancing up from behind his easel every so often . . . as she stared into the candle flame, obviously daydreaming. Vincent couldn't help but wonder what she thought of so often. He knew it was always the same thing, for she had the same dreamy expression on her face every time. Katrina no longer looked at him with that same fulfilled look and it stung. The silence between them was too overpowering for him to say anything, so he went back to painting.

They spent hours that way, her staring into the candlelight and him touching up his picture. Vincent kept glancing at her, his mind making up fictional scenarios of what she was thinking about. To his dismay, visions of his brother and his love embracing each other kept entering his brain. Visions of Katrina wanting to leave him, to go with someone complete and not deformed. Someone who could live with her in the real world, someone who wouldn't keep her secluded like a harem girl just because he was afraid.

Then it came: the thing he had been dreading most.