Ford
FOR A WEEK, NOTHING HAPPENS.
There's no making good on the promises that I'll need to be in two places at once. There's no new murder to add to the ever-growing investigation. There are no new developments with Genevieve and I—she continues to transport my hot chocolates to college, but I'm clueless as to what she does with them, and she hasn't spoken to me again.
There are no sightings of Carson Henry, despite having visual representation of his current appearance from his records. Notwithstanding the town being aware of a serial killer poisoning Westville, certain cops don't want to leak that he's a contract killer, because one way or another his past will leak to the media and somehow Red Alert will be added into the equation, even if we're still doubtful of the association.
Red Alert thrive with secrecy and sordid negotiations. Exposure for the legacy has always been a detriment, hence why anyone who obtains members' details are dealt with accordingly. There are active members of the community who have always made their aversion to the legacy known and will stop at nothing to guarantee the annihilation of our way of life.
Now it's Friday morning and I've got a boxing fight tomorrow. Renner had it set up by Tuesday, claiming that although it's in quick succession after my previous one, he knows I'm more than up for a challenge and a way to up the ante. My body blessedly heals quickly, and I've trained every evening with Renner. We're both confident for another victory to add to my portfolio.
Exiting my Audi, I shut the driver's door softly while I carry Genevieve's hot chocolate in my other hand. I stuff my free hand in the pocket of my hoodie as the chill latches to my exposed skin. Donning skinny jeans and a long T-shirt that hangs lower than the hoodie, I lower my head to my casual outfit, avoiding the eyes of anyone who might be at the window as I traverse the driveway.
As I place the hot chocolate delicately down on the ground, I remove a folded piece of paper from my pocket and slip it underneath the drink, so it won't fly away with the breeze that's crept into the air. Satisfied, I swagger down the driveway and conceal myself just out of sight. I want to observe Genevieve's reaction.
On my note I've presumptuously written:
I've reserved you a seat tomorrow
for my boxing fight
There's every reason why she won't attend, but I'm hoping she fixates on the one reason why she wants to attend and believes she should. There's nothing more I desire than for her to shed her inhabitations and go against what her mind's telling her so she can follow her heart.
Based on the lack of severity of irate reactions from Genevieve, I know there's still a residue of her feelings or attraction for me. It's why she called me asking for an update on Carson and Frederick and why she's not screaming at me to cease the hot chocolate deliveries until her body hits hysteria and she's crying. She's slowly coming around to the idea of forgiveness.
It's only a minute or two I have to wait until Genevieve's opening the front door. She bends to retrieve the hot chocolate, though the curiosity is etched across her face as she unfolds the note, straightening. As soon as she's perused the words, she appears guarded with her emotions, shrouding them from me. I suppress the urge to hum my frown, because in the next second, she's stuffing the note in her pocket and climbing into her Toyota.
"Shit," I breathe once I'm safely back in my Audi and I watch her drive off to college, less confident about her presence tomorrow night than I was before.
For a minute, I remain there, absolutely motionless. My mind whirls continuously as it's been doing since Iesha was murdered and Harris dropped the bombshell that Genevieve was his girlfriend. Since then I've been unable to entirely relax my thoughts and trying to articulate them is even worse for me. I sigh softly, shaking my head.
