Misfits

9.1 | until the tears subside

❝and in the end, we were all just humans...
drunk on the idea that love, only love, could heal our brokenness.❞
ｆ. ｓｃｏｔｔ ｆｉｔｚｇｅｒａｌｄ

___

ＩＴ is difficult to tell what has my mother more on edge: Richard Masters' sudden death, or the paperwork that followed it.

Within three hours of confirming his passing as a suicide, the penitentiary descends into a brief madness from which Morgana wastes no time trying to pull it from.

Any soul that had come into the slightest contact with Masters over the past week is put through rounds of interrogation. Hours upon hours of CCTV footage is reviewed, all to ensure and rule out the unspeakable possibility of outside involvement in the disgraced mayor's death.

Having gotten tired of our inquisitive eyes watching her dash up and about the place, ears perked and primed to pick up whatever morsel of information she dropped on her way to her next destination, Morgana eventually ushers the three of us home ahead of her.

She herself would return when an agent of a ranking high enough to assume a role of authority arrived on site to relieve her from her responsibilities; or so she tells me when she notices I am about to complain that her doctor wouldn't like her overexerting herself.

The ride back to my grandparents' farm is surprisingly quiet. The investigative team that inquired me all morning about Masters were chattier than Cole and Emma are now. By now, I expected one of them to ask me how I knew about Richard Masters' fate – or at the very least, when I found out.

"I really didn't know for long," I find myself saying once the silence becomes stifling. "The vision was so vague, at first I didn't know who or what it referred to. I thought my mother had already fulfilled it days ago when she made Emma agree to come here. It wasn't until it was too late I realised."

"It's fine, Cass," Cole says. "We know. No one is blaming you."

"Emma?" I cast the blonde an uncertain look.

Emma takes an extra moment before returning my gaze with a drained smile and a half-hearted nod.

Without making a verbal comment on the matter, she lets her eyes drift to the window beside me — just out of her reach from the middle seat. "Could you open the window a bit?" she says instead. "It's getting a little stuffy in here."

❧

Back at the farm, we are met with a predictable chorus of fussing and fretting from Grandma and Grandpa, having heard about the ordeal of the morning.

"Your mother told me briefly about it on the phone on your way here. I can only imagine how you must feel. It's been a tough morning, hasn't it?" Grandma Estelle says as she ushers us in.

The kitchen is teeming with the warm flavours of a homemade meal, fresh off the stove. It should be an inviting aroma, yet the contrast to the lifeless rooms of the penitentiary is so jarring, that it leaves an odd taste in my mouth.

"I'm sure with all the stress you haven't been able to eat anything," Grandma continues, squeezing Grandpa's shoulder as a silent thanks as he finishes off setting the table. "Please, help yourselves."

We stare at the spread awkwardly, not knowing what to do with our limbs. Emma, surprisingly, is the first to speak.

"Sorry, Grandma Estelle," she says, "I don't think I have much of an appetite right now. Is it okay if I go up to lie down first?"