Death Is A Redhead

Chapter Twelve: The Redheaded Widow

A slim figure peeks around the corner at Felicity, just slightly darker than its surroundings, almost imperceptible. Suddenly, the silhouette steps into full view. It looks like a woman in a dark dress, no, a trench coat. The moonlight filters through her hair. Her red hair.

Felicity tries to jump out of bed, rush her, run to David's room, but she can't move. She's paralyzed. Has she been drugged?

The woman approaches Felicity's bed, leaning over. Her features, shrouded in darkness, slowly materialize, and Felicity sees her own face staring down at her. She sits up in bed and the woman dissolves into the darkness.

She shivers, although drenched in sweat for the second time in the past twelve hours. Another waking dream. She hasn't had one in years. The clock on the side table reads five-thirty on the dot. She won't be getting any more sleep this morning.

With a flick of her wrist, she brings the old television buzzing to life, revealing two reporters on ABC's America This Morning. They're covering a story on a thief who got stuck in the chimney during an attempted burglary. Felicity scans the running border. Sure enough, it reads as follows: Miss Scarlet killer slays father of two. Police suspect serial killer.

She changes the channel to the Food Network and drags herself to the shower. Ten minutes later, she's out and applying the last bit of hotel lotion. It won't make a dent in her dry skin. She's never been crazy about makeup, but she usually wears a tinted moisturizer and mascara. Not today. She slips into the black maxi dress and discovers another problem. She has to wear tennis shoes and dirty socks with her dress.

"This day just keeps getting better," she says, stepping into the hall.

She knocks on David's door, ready to start the day and get one step closer to home. He doesn't answer. She beats her fist on the door this time, ending with a kick for good measure. This time, she hears a loud thump in response. A few seconds later, a red-faced, disheveled David yanks the door open.

"What!"

"It's time to go."

"It's six a.m."

"Yeah, that's the time you usually get up, right?"

Still standing in the doorway, he lets his head drop to his chest and takes a deep breath. Smirking, he peeks up at her.

"Why don't you go downstairs and get us some breakfast while I get ready."

"Okay," she says, brightening. "What do you want?"

"Just get two of everything."

Twenty minutes later, Felicity returns with a tray of various pastries including bagels, muffins, danishes, and waffles. She also brings two cups of coffee and orange juice. After handing him his coffee, David's attitude improves drastically.

"I'm just about ready," he says with a comb in his hand. The room smells like deodorant and aftershave.

"Do you have deodorant?"

"Yes..."

"A-and lotion?"

"Do you need some?"

"If you can spare it," she says, grinning innocently.

He tosses them to her and vanishes into the bathroom. Hastily she applies them. Now, she smells like a man, but hey, it's better than body odor.

After a sugary breakfast, they check out and are behind the wheels of their vehicles once again. Felicity drives lead this time, much to David's chagrin. They arrive in San Diego at around nine o'clock and find Veronica's house half an hour later.