Murder by Medium

Chapter 4-The seeds of Deception

—-——The seeds of Deception—-——

Rowan felt a cold shiver race down his spine as Phaedra clapped her hands together, the sound echoing in the dimly lit room like a sudden clap of thunder.

"First thing's first," she said, her voice silky yet sharp like a knife's edge. "We need to decide which family to target. Tell me, who do you know? Someone vulnerable. Someone in the thick of grief, anyone stuck in your mind?"

Rowan's mind raced. Moments passed, filled with the drum of his heartbeat echoing in his ears. The guilt clawed at him, but urgency prickled at his skin—Cillian beckoned like a shadow behind every corner.

He had relationships scattered across the neighbourhood, but the Rivers family came to mind. They were prominent in the community, their small fortune built over generations. An elderly matriarch, Agnes Rivers, still held court over the family gatherings, her children and grandchildren hanging on her every word. Rowan remembered how Agnes had once taken pity on him, offering him stale cookies and kind words during a particularly rough patch. But even kindness could be a form of weakness—a vulnerability he and Phaedra could exploit.

He took a shaky breath and finally said "Agnes she has a big family... and her health isn't what it used to be."

Phaedra's eyes gleamed like sharpened daggers. "The matriarch, perfect. I know losing her wouldn't just be about the loss. It's about dismantling the peace they've built around her legacy—her comforting wisdom." The corners of her mouth twisted into a contemplative frown as she pressed her fingers against her temples. Her passing would shake the family to its core, especially if they believe she has unfinished business."

Rowan felt sick, the knot in his stomach tightening He could already envision the mourning, the pain, and the desperation that would claw at the hearts of Agnes's loved ones. "Phaedra... you can't just take a life. Even if you intend to manipulate the grief for some twisted purpose, that's still someone's mother, grandmother..." A raging storm began forming in his chest, and he struggled to suppress it, reminding himself of Cillian and what awaited him on the other side of denial.

Phaedra's steely gaze softened for a moment, revealing a flicker of vulnerability. "I understand the weight of this, Rowan. I really do. I lost my own family once, snatched away too quickly. All I wanted was for someone to hear my cry for closure. But that never came.

Closure isn't just about saying goodbye; it's a transaction of the heart, an intermingling of grief and anger. Our society shies away from the truth, but I bring that truth with vivid detail. I need you to help me show them what they crave most... and to be honest, I need this too."

Rowan's resolve wavered, but as he recalled Cillian's threats, he tightened his grip on the table's edge. "Okay," he said reluctantly, "I'll gather information on Agnes....her health, family dynamics. I'll find a way to get close but—"

"No 'buts'," Phaedra interjected. "This is business, Rowan. A mutual dependence. You'll earn your cut, and I'll provide the closure that's needed. A nod of the head was all Phaedra needed and she was off again her eyes darkening with a mixture of approval and urgency.

"You'll earn their trust. Make sure to observe the tiny details—the affectionate nicknames, family traditions, any argument that might hint at unresolved issues. It all informs the narrative I'll craft when I launch the séance."

Rowan swallowed hard, listening as Phaedra laid out her plans with cool precision. Each calculated move felt like an anchor pulling him deeper into an abyss, yet somewhere within his heart, he found himself intrigued by the art of deception—the performance of it all. He had always been a storyteller, weaving tales to entice some poor old biddy to buy his products. Was this really so different?

As she spoke, Rowan couldn't shake the morbid realization that he was about to orchestrate someone's grief. But Phaedra had a way of framing it all: Yes, it was darkness, but it was also artistry. A performance that could lift the curtain on hidden truths—a last hurrah for the dead. Fear and uncertainty gnawed at him, but once again, desperation overshadowed ethics, and he nodded with resolve. "I can do that. But how do we time this? Should I... should I wait for her health to decline further?"

Phaedra shook her head, her expression fierce and determined. "We can't predict the clock's hands. The moment must be ripe—a convergence of grief, questions, and belief. That's where I shine, Rowan." She paused, the faintest hint of remorse flickering across her features. "I'm not a monster, you know. I genuinely believe I can bring them peace."

He was silent, grappling with the twisted web he was weaving. He still felt the gravity of each word spoken. But he couldn't allow himself to think too deeply, lest his resolve waver again.

"Fine," he said, squaring his shoulders. "I'll reach out to the Rivers. I can offer help with anything.....Agnes' medicines, errands or... or something, whatever it takes."

"That's the spirit," Phaedra agreed, nodding approvingly. "For their trust to work, blend in, become a confidant, and return with every detail. And remember," she added, her expression darkening at the corners, "we'll need to choose the moment carefully. The world will know Agnes for her compassion—a matriarch of love. But love can be manipulated, especially in death."

Rowan clenched his fists, wrestling with the dark realization of what that meant. His heart raced as he felt the gravity of the choice he had just made. There was no going back. A cold future loomed ahead, and he could now see himself walking the fragile line between life and death, light and dark.

As he turned to leave, he could swear he felt the weight of Agnes River's spectre hovering just beyond the threshold, watching. Waiting.

With a heavy heart, Rowan pushed open the door to leave her dim room, the weight of every decision pressing down on him. As he stepped out into the crisp night air, it hit him—the world had never seemed so starkly divided between light and dark, moral and immoral. He felt the breath of Agnes hanging in the air, a reminder that he was about to lead a family through a storm they didn't see coming.

And yet, underneath it all, the thing that tethered Rowan to Phaedra's chaotic world was the shadow of sympathy for her plight, too. After all, she was a lost soul in her own right, dancing through darkness to find a semblance of purpose.

With each step back toward the Rivers homestead, he wondered if he was really stepping into a situation that would define him or if it would simply become another tale, one etched forever against his conscience.