Burning Moth

Chapter Twelve, Part One - Where The Bodies Are

Two days in the Dixon mansion as a prisoner in guests' clothing flew by surprisingly fast. Nick had yet to show his face, so of course the narcissist in me worried he was somewhere falling apart without me. In the meantime, his brothers and sisters supplied plenty of distractions.

Meet Isa–the three-year-old china doll with long brown ringlets, fond of permanent marker messes and climbing trees.

Diesel–the little engine who never stopped running, a five-year-old who picked pockets for candy and could have easily passed for Nick's son in the looks department.

Soren–the seventeen-year-old much too handsome for his own good, who smoked pot in his bedroom and snuck lingering glances at me from across the dinner table.

And Antonia–the beautiful, modelesque twenty-one-year-old, using her time off from college abroad to sneer at me and gossip with her rich friends. 

Feeling like the world's biggest third wheel, I tried my best to stay out of the way, but it was impossible not to notice how amazing Emily was with her kids. She was late nights and early mornings, double checking that the chefs packed school lunches for Diesel and Soren, conducting tea parties with Isa and her court of stuffed animals, adding a few inches to Antonia's dress before she left for the club.

Truth be told, the things I saw in the Dixon household were not what I expected from the wife of a hotshot crime family. There were different sides to Emily–she was more than just a murderer, or the wife of a gangster. She was the family glue; while her distant, brooding husband spent the majority of his day at the office, Emily held shit down at the mansion–taking care of the kids, balancing the family's numerous affairs, stealing small bits of free time to read novels by candle light... For a monster, Emily was surprisingly domestic.

After dinner the third night of my stay, while the Dixons were retiring for the evening, I snuck upstairs to one of the empty parlors. By sneaking around after dark, I had discovered pretty early in my stay that this was the only room whose balcony doors were unlocked. I stole onto the gallery and took a seat on the marble ledge, heedless of the thirty foot drop. Instead, I watched the first snowfall, smoking the joint I had filched from Soren's room.

Below my dangling feet, the Dixon's pool was drained, now resembling a giant concrete grave. The sprawling garden beyond, just another deathbed, ripe for the killing. I thought of Emily sprinkling me on her roses in the spring, and cursed myself for being stupid enough to still want her son.

Where the hell is he, anyway? I gave a frustrated sigh, flicking the ashes into space. If the weed hadn't already kicked in to steady my nerves, Graham would have startled my ass right over the edge. Smooth as whiskey and coke, he hopped the ledge and took a seat, so close his jeans rubbed against mine. By now, he was around enough for me to recognize him by his cologne–peppery, but sweet.

"I hate you, go away." Stalker much? Why hadn't he just gone back to his own home after dinner?

"Hello to you too, Farfallina," said Graham. "Since you're here, I think we should work on a few things--more specifically, your table manners. It's not nice to steal during dinner, Scarlet. Kills the appetite."

"Scusa, I dunno know what you're talking about." I smiled, running my tongue over the back of my teeth, wondering how good it would feel if the two of us fell, just once.

It was too dark to make out the true color of his eyes, but they were dark like his grin. "You excused yourself from the dinner table--I followed you. You snuck to the foyer closet, dug around in Tony's jacket for a bit. I'm guessing you were looking for a phone. Not very smart. A--she texts in her sleep, Tony never goes anywhere without her shit. B--if she had caught you, the maid would still be vacuuming your hair from the rug. And C--you know the rules. No contact with anyone until we have the diary. Maybe I should remove your tongue to prove a point."