Cynthia Thompson burrowed her young, pale face into her dainty, flower-embroidered handkerchief. The morning rain pitter-pattered on all of the black umbrellas.The rain drummed on the casket that lay in front of her and her newly deceased husband within.
It had been three days sense the news of her husband's death was announced to the Thompson family. Of course Cynthia was the first to know. Cynthia had been James's second wife. She filled the empty void after James's first wife left him. Cynthia had loved her husband, or at least she wanted it to look like it. What she loved more than anything was his money. Dollar signs flowed through her veins. Money, to her, meant power and control. James Thompson had been about 20 years older than Cynthia and the owner of several banks. He had had in his possession a great deal of money (about the only thin Cynthia loved about him). Today would be the day it all would end. Everyone was there to mourn for their loss. Every aunt, uncle, step-child, grand parent, and even some people Cynthia had never seen before attended. (All weeping into each other's arms, all real and true.) Fake and deceptive tears filled Cynthia's eyes and poured down her cheeks landing on her black dress. Doubling her husband's daily medicine did the trick. (A plan Cynthia had thought about for a very long time.) Friends and family walked up to Cynthia saying,
"I'm sorry for your loss."
"He was a great man."
"My condolences, Ms. Thompson." (These were the most common among the groups.)
Cynthia had kept to her script. She had played it over and over in her head so she wouldn't mess up. She had to play the role perfectly.
"Thank you," she would say as she would nod her head. "Thank you for coming."
Cynthia climbed into the back of her 1934 Rolls-Royce and told her driver,
"Jeremy, take me to the house..... I have some unfinished business to take care of."
"Yes, ma'am."
The tires of the car rumbled and bumped over the rock road down to the monster she called a house. It was a mansion on the country side; a dream of anyone that was alive, a paradise for a person like Cynthia. The car drove up the driveway to the front entrance. Mourning servants greeted her at the front door. She ran past the grieving servants right to the master bedroom. She sat on the grand bed staring at James's self-portrait over their fireplace. Some would think it was because she was grieving, but oh no, she did the complete opposite. She grabbed a stepladder and pulled his portrait off the. It landing on the floor with a thud, revealing a safe. She frantically turned the knob trying to figure the combination. His birthday? No. The ages of his children? No. Cynthia and his anniversary? Yes! He must have loved her so much. Did Cynthia show any reluctance? Of course not! She opened the safe door slowly. The sweet aroma of green bills filled the air. She took a deep breath. This reminded her of how many times she had married men for money and killed them. But it also reminded her of how many times she would do it in the future. She chuckled under her breath.
"Yes, this will do nicely. Perfect."
After about two years, Cynthia found a new lamb to slaughter. One of James's old co-workers and close friends, Tom. Tom owned a chain of banks and sold thoroughbred horses. Money filled his pockets to the brim making him the perfect candidate for Cynthia's next victim. A grand wedding was held to their liking.
"Till death do us part," Cynthia said smiling very wickedly.
"Till death do us part," Tom said with the same wicked smile.
After the ceremony everyone went into the "house" to dance and celebrate.
"I need to get some air," she said to Tom.
"I'll come with you," he said smiling.
They walked out onto a balcony. Tom grabbed two glasses of champagne already filled and gave on to Cynthia.
"I propose we have a toast," he said.
"What should we toast to?" she asked.
"To..... us," he said with an evil smile.'
Cynthia brought the glass to her lips and drank.
"That's right. You drink up now," he said to her as if she were a child.
Her face turned red and her hands began to tremble.
"What... have.... ugh.... you.. done?!?" She said in a raspy voice, struggling to get the words out.
"I just..... spiced up your drink a bit," he said laughing. Tom was holding a vile filled with some clear liquid she couldn't recognize. "love does strange things to people doesn't it? But money also does that too. How much do you think you have? Thousands? Millions? Am I lucky enough to have gotten billions?!?" he continued to go on talking about how much he would inherit after she was dead. Just like she had done with James. After fifteen minutes, she collapsed on the stone hard ground.
And with that, Cynthia Anne Thompson was dead. She was pronounved dead at 12:00, right at midnight. Money makes people do the most psycho things.
