hurt girl

Chapter 9.... Franky Setters (Present Day)

It's after nine o'clock when I close and lock my apartment door. Exhausted, I drop my keys and cell on the side table as I try to balance on one foot, taking each shoe off. Stooping over to collect the scattered mail, I make a note to have my mail delivered to the office. Lord knows I spend most of my waking hours there anyway.

Grateful for the cool air that envelopes my body, I send a silent thank you to whomever invented this modern marvel they call air conditioning.

Wanting desperately to enjoy the cool air and a relaxing evening, I push back the uneasy feeling that started creeping up as soon as I entered my apartment. Something was amiss, but what? Unable to figure it out, I decide to drop it. And naturally that's when I realize what was wonky. My three legged, furry feline friend wasn't at the door to greet me, like he had been everyday for the last two years. Strange as it was, I had a pretty good idea why he wasn't there. After all, I had left him home to fend for himself for over twelve hours, and that's bound to send an already temperamental cat over the edge. I ready myself to eat crow.

"Furley?" I call out.

"Aww, Furley, I'm sorry. . Please forgive me?" I plead to deaf ears.

No dice. I'm in serious trouble. Sighing, I decide that bribery is the fastest and easiest solution. I make my way to the pantry and dig out a couple of cat treats, along with a bag of Sunchips. Grabbing a cold beer, I head to the couch with the mail and remote, intent on relaxing for at least an hour.

Munching on a chip, I scan through the dvr recordings until I find the Golden Girls and hit play. Betty White just puts me in a better mood. Go figure, I love the woman. Shaking my head at how predictable and boring my life has become, I swallow a mouthful of beer, and sort through the mail. The normal garb: bills, credit card offers, and pizza flyers. I stack the bills into a neat pile, while the credit offers are tore and tossed. Looking over the pizza coupons, I notice a plain white letter envelope with no return address. Curious, I open it and begin to read:

Dearest Frances,

It is good advice that you take in as much beauty as your eyes will allow. For soon (Very Soon) you will no longer be able. I WILL have your eyeballs in a jar upon my shelf with the rest of my pretties. Tell me, will a lifetime of darkness be enough to pay for your sins?

Regards,

The Debt Collector

Stunned, I reread it again and again. Each time feeling the little hairs on the back of my neck stand. Who would write such a thing? I wonder. An angry parent, whose child I placed in foster care? And, which one? The list is so long. Sophia Nettles and little brother Charlie, Zoey Begley, Cheylo Martin and little sister Hayden, Mason Ressky, Angelo Diaz, the Harkey boys. The name Harkey sends a shiver through me. That was a particularly unpleasant case.

Logan Harkey, father to the five boys, murdered their mother with a 357 Magnum, insisting the boys witness it. According to Harkey himself, the seven of them were sitting at the dinner table eating meatloaf when the eldest son, Brandon, asked to be excused. Harkey denied his son the request, citing a surprise he wanted to share with all of them. When all are finished with the meal, Harkey stands up and walks over to his wife. Standing behind her chair with one hand on her shoulder, he reveals to their children that their mother is a whore and that if they'd like to meet her new boyfriend, they could find him in the trunk of his car... Dead! When Brenda tries to stand and protest, Harkey puts a gun to her temple, kisses the top of her head, and pulls the trigger. It was a horrific case, but as far as I know, Logan Harkey is still in prison. And besides, how in the world could he blame me for placing his children in foster care? No, it can't be him, I decide.