Silhouettes Chapter 7

Well, there was a low number of reviews, but nothing could keep me from being motivated! I really appreciate my regulars, shot out to them!

-XXX-

"Lacerations coincide with keys….sand on shoes suggests recent trip to beach…hair curled, not usual. Meeting someone. A respected someone…."

There are photos. A petite blonde, lying on the sand. Wearing a floral skirt, a black blouse, half-open. I've never seen the photo before, but I recognize the woman instantly. It's Susan McLarney. The Scottish girl who was found dead on our beach nearly two years ago.

I almost drop the file.

Why does Ben have this?

I thumb through the notes, photos, clippings, reports, thorough confused. Is he some kind of policeman? Detective?

Or….Bile rises in my throat again. "Or some kind of murderer?"

But no. No, that's not Ben. That's not Ben at all.

"How could you know?" I scold myself. "You don't know anything about him."

Tentatively, I turn to the next file. I glance upstairs. Once assured that Ben will not be returning soon, I open up the folder.

This file is filled with nothing but newspaper clippings. I get a flash of photos of Ben in black and white newsprint, eyes wide. In a few he's wearing a funny deerstalker cap. In one or two photos a shorter blonde man stands beside him nervously, mouth firm. There is a tug at the back of my mind, telling me that these images are familiar. The niggling sensation catches me short when I spot a name in one of the captions. "Sherlock Homes -." I know that name. I've heard it. Somewhere… But I don't….How –

I hear the stairs squeak, and with a snap I'm shoving the photos back into the file and rearranging the folders back on the table. Trying to look as bored and casual as possible, I snuggle into the armchair, head flopping to the side, eyes hazy. I want to look as sleepy as possible, rather than dazed and panicked.

Ben enters slowly. The look he casts me is long and enough to make me shift uncomfortably.

"He can't know."

But it's Ben, and he can. He completely can. That's the thing, Ben's crazy good at knowing thing.

"How are you feeling?" he asks lightly, coming to kneel beside me, lifting my foot. Long, pale fingers readjust my sock. It's an intimate, tender touch I'd never expect from Ben. I can feel my cheeks heat.

"Better," I whisper. "But I think the numbing-stuff is wearing off."

His lips tuck up in a half-smile. "We'll get you some pills. You're going to have to be cautious in walking on that foot for the next few weeks."

"Yeah." Sitting up, I'm a little more level with him. "Thank you, Ben. I should…go."

"What will you tell your father?"

"The truth. Now that I'm in one piece, he'll be a little less apt to freak." I look down. "Thank you. So much. I'm sorry you had to deal with this. Not your idea of the perfect afternoon, I'm sure."

"It was not so terrible," he allows with a small smile.

For a moment, an awkward silence takes us. I bite my lip. Gently, I make to stand. Ben's hand shoots out to my elbow, steadying me. I inadvertently lean into him. Now my blood is really warm. We're chest-to-chest – or, rather, my chest is about level with his abdomen and eyes with his shoulder, as he towers over me easily. Impassive, Ben holds me.

With a cough, I back up. "Sorry. Um. I'll go. I can drive."

"Yes." He's turned to the door. I hobble after him.

"I'll see you sometime."

Ben nods.

From my rearview mirror, I see an orange glow alight in the front parlor window and wonder if he's noted the shifted files by now, or it was something he was aware of when he came down the stairs.

-XXX-

Dad isn't home when I get in. I leave him a note on the mirror of the foyer, saying that I'd been struck with a headache and wish to be left alone for the evening, then limp upstairs. After grabbing a few ibuprofen from the medicine cabinet in the upstairs bathroom, I down three. I take the glass with me to the bedroom, and sink into my bed with great care.

Sleep is difficult to find, as my mind is plagued with thoughts of the files and Ben and what I don't know.

Eventually I drift off into an uneasy sleep, waking every few hours to stare at the ceiling in confusion.

-XXX-

Breakfast the next morning is a dramatic affair.

I limp downstairs with extreme caution, fully expecting a lecture from Dad once he sees my injury. But he's not to be immediately found. Though I've risen rather late – nine o'clock – he isn't in his office, or out of the house (I can see his car from the front window), or before the TV in the parlor. I finally find him in the kitchen.

The atmosphere of the room is heavy. The paper is still in its roll on the counter by the coffee pot. A cup of tea sits, untouched, beside my father's spread hand. He stands, hunched, over the island, staring blankly out the small window above our stainless steel sink. Hugo is curled in his basket, nose hidden beneath his paws. He can tell something is up.

"Dad?"

He turns. It's then that I notice his eyes are red-rimmed. "Viola," he murmurs.

When he moves I spot the open letter and torn envelope.

A hand goes out to me, and I stumble into my father's arms, unsure of the circumstances of his distress, just knowing that I wish to comfort him.

He gasps. "Six months ago. They only just found our address."

I squeeze him tighter. "What?"

"You mother." Dad pulls back. He cannot seem to get the words out. For a moment he struggles, mouthing attempting. Finally, he manages a single word. "Dead."

My arms drop. He embraces me again, and in my hair, stroking and making soft sounds. I cannot move. Yesterday I thought I was numb, in shock. It's nothing in comparison to today. I can feel a liquid cold start at the base of my skull and penetrate down my spine.

I whisper. "She's -"

I sink onto the nearest stool.

"I'm sorry, Vi. I am so sorry. She…it was months ago. They've been looking for us ever since. The lawyers…."

"What?" I blink up at him.

"The lawyers, love," he says gently. "There is the matter of the will."

I hadn't even considered this. Speaking of matters I hadn't considered….

"What…happened?"

Dad swallows. "I don't know." He gestures to the letter. "They were very vague."

I pick up the paper. Scanning the cold black type, I read the formal statement. "Mother to the heir…passed six months ago…last will and testament…only known living relative…contact as soon as this correspondence is received…."

The cold has fully engulfed me. The letter is returned to the counter. I cannot bring myself to speak. Instead, I pat Dad on the shoulder, then rise to limp to the hall, then up the stairs. Dad follows without question. He tucks me into bed, shutting the door quietly. I stare at the ceiling. Eventually, I fall asleep.

-XXX-

Well. That took a sharply dramatic turn.

I meant for more time in between the introduction of the mother and her demise, but sometimes you publish things before you realize you had other plans…anyways.

Thank you for reading, hope you're enjoying it. Questions, comments, critique and concerns, I take 'em all.