“Could have been worse,” Taura muttered to herself. She gave the barista a smile, then scoped out the sitting area. Miraculously found a two person table, then squeezed herself in to wait for Mr. Stacy.
When your distant rich grandmother dies and her attorney wants to talk estates you wait.
Taura wasn’t in mourning, she’d never met the woman. But still she felt bound as the dutiful eldest child to at least hear the attorney out.
Taura looked up, greeting lodged in her throat.
Why the hell was a necromancer her dead grandmother’s attorney?
Flash Fiction Weekly Challenge: The Prediction. This week’s words are: duty, London, mourn.
Evan tried not to scoff. “Isn’t that a little dramatic, Lani? It’s just a parking garage.” With a quick glance over his shoulder, he saw Lani walk faster toward him, her uneven gait making her look extra grumpy.
“A mostly dark, wet parking garage with flickering lights. I’m wearing a broken heel and we are leaving the company event without telling anyone. Prime murder victims, my dude.”
Evan held out a hand to Lani as a peace offering, she took it and hobbled a little closer. “I sent a text to Malachi before we came down. If we go missing, he’ll alert the police.”
“Fuck the police.” Lani tried not to smile and squeezed his hand. “Call the Winchesters. I’m pretty sure that shadow just moved.”
The house smells like dirty diapers, weak air fresheners, and something burnt. It’s all I can do from using my scarf to cover my nose. But I don’t think that would help sell the image I’m supposed to be giving off. A retired social worker turned private investigator who could handle her shit, not to mention her gag reflex.
Not that there was anyone watching me but the old landlord standing outside waiting to close the room back up. But damn, there were some smells that just got me. Dirty diapers were one of them. There was a reason I told my ex-girlfriend, that kids were not for me. Diapers and endless time to dedicate to their well being. When I honestly didn’t do a bang up job of taking care of myself.
I poured myself into work from an already empty cup…fuck, my therapist’s metaphors were starting to work it’s way into my daily thoughts. Fucking great….and I know I didn’t have much left to give anyone else. I was working on it, but it was going to take some time. Twenty five years of playing savior doesn’t just disappear over night.
And if my therapist was to be believed, being a PI wasn’t going to help matters. But when there’s a kid missing, well, she knows better than to argue with me now.
Mara quieted her travel alarm clock and tossed it into her small duffle bag below her on the floor. She slipped out from under the covers and dressed as quietly as she could. Her second alarm on her old diving watch went off, signaling she had four minutes left. Quickly, but carefully, she folded the blankets she had borrowed and put it back in the linen closet.
She was a pro at this by now — couch hopping. If it were a sport, she was sure to win a medal. Mara had several years of practice minimizing her presence, erasing any evidence she had been through, condensing her life into a small duffle bag and a sturdy vintage medicine bag.
With a minute and a half to spare, Mara grabbed her bags and stepped outside. Pressing the alarm button behind her. She rolled her shoulders, cracking her neck in the process and heaved a deep sigh. As she took a step toward the street ahead, she heard the alarm reactivate on the Michelson’s winter townhome behind her.
Who needs B&B’s when Mara was a professional at B&E’s?
“Just because I’m temporarily dead, doesn’t mean you can ignore me.”
I dabbed the grease from my pepperoni pizza, making a point to keep ignoring Jesi. I took a large bite and closed my eyes, enjoying the rare hot meal.
“Answer the question, Rory.” Jesi pressed.
It wasn’t that I didn’t have an answer, it’s just that she wouldn’t like it. I wiped my hands on my wrinkled pants and with a heavy sigh, I answered. “The ritual didn’t work, Jesi. Emele never finished his part, until I can find him –”
“I can’t come back.”
“You can’t come back.”
Flash Fiction Weekly Challenge: The Prediction. This week’s words are: grease, question, wrinkle