𝕭𝖚𝖎𝖑𝖙 𝖋𝖔𝖗 𝕾𝖎𝖓 ✧ American Horror Story

𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕿𝖍𝖗𝖊𝖊: 𝙼𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝙷𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎

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"I am just horrified for you and your family," Marcy expressed, her voice filled with empathy, as she sat at the end of the grand dining room table. Joey was seated next to her, having just made a call to the realtor who sold them the house to explore their options for selling it. Ophelia entered the room, placing a tray of freshly prepared tea on the table before taking a seat across from her father. Her mind was racing with the weight of recent events, and she couldn't help but feel a mix of anxiety and anger.

"I hardly know what to say, really. And I can just imagine how you might be feeling a little anxious, given all this," Marcy continued, turning her attention to Ophelia.

"If you mean not being able to sleep at night... then sure. I'm anxious," Ophelia admitted, her fingers curling around the warm teacup. She took a sip after blowing on it gently to cool it down. "I'm more angry than anything."

The memories were haunting Marcy too. "You know that's how I felt when the boys, you know, did what they did. We'd gotten rather close... they'd have me over for Bloody Mary's and omelets on a Sunday," she recalled, her thoughts drifting back to the past. "So, to find out what nasty little perverts they were... you probably heard about the poker from the fireplace being rammed up his—"

"Marcy," Joey's voice rose slightly to halt her in her tracks, pulling her back from her disturbing recollections. "We have to put the house back on the market... and we have to make back everything I put into it. I just can't afford to take a bath on this."

"You know, you might want to adjust your expectations. The housing market is dropping daily... and these things aren't about to change until 2013 when we vote that bum out," Marcy informed, taking another sip from her tea. Ophelia let out a long sigh, feeling disheartened about the prospects of selling the house.

"Well, here's the bottom line," Joey leaned forward, his arms resting criss-crossed on the table. "You owe our family. Under the law, you were obligated to disclose any material facts that might have influenced my decision to buy this house."

"Excuse me, dear, but the law requires us to disclose any death on the premises within the last three years," Marcy corrected, placing her hands on her chest. "I did that." She then reached for her teacup, growing visibly upset. "Nobody's buying me cooking classes, Dr. Bishop. Nobody's looking out for me... do you know where I live? I live in a 350-square-foot guesthouse... in Valley Village... with rats! I'd kill to live in this house, regardless of the history."

Setting her cup back down, Marcy realized she had been so engrossed in her words that she forgot to sip from it. "You know, you probably need a more seasoned realtor. Someone who specializes in—"

"Oh, you think you were my first call?" Joey's sarcasm grew evident as his patience wore thin. "I called every realtor in the city this morning— Coldwell Banker, Century 21, no one will take this listing. So, here's the plan: you are going to bake cookies, you are going to buy beautiful, expensive, fresh-cut flowers. You are gonna maybe make up some nice stories about all the lovely people who have lived here over the years. You're gonna do whatever the fuck it takes, and you are gonna sell this house, and then my daughter and I are gonna go live somewhere safe. In return for that, I'm not gonna sue you for gross criminal negligence."

The room fell into an awkward silence, Ophelia feeling like a spectator in the tense exchange. A moment later, her father spoke again, "We on the same page?" Marcy nodded, visibly shaken by Joey's sudden change in demeanor. "Good."

Joey picked up his cup of tea, taking a sip. "See? Someone's looking out for you."

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