Framed in Red

Part One

And then it started raining cats and dogs. Peter shied away from the windows and retreated to his living room. His pale body trembled nervously as he reached for a thin blanket and wrapped himself in it. His smoky grey eyes darted around the room. Boom! A clap of thunder roared throughout the chaotic sky, quickly after the flash of lightning appeared. Peter jerked backward and nearly fell out of his sofa. He had never been so fearful in his life since the day he was born.

The room was crowded with a jumble of small sounds: the wall-mounted clock ticked and tocked, raindrops were pattering on the windows, every now-and-then a trace of thunder would shake the walls, and his blanket would make scratch-like sounds as he shifted around at his spot. His phone beeped. Peter picked it up from the coffee table and read the text. A minute later, he shoved his cellphone into his pocket, dragged a small trunk across the room, and waited at the front door.

A pair of bright, amber yellow lamps shone through the thick curtain of rain. Finally, he thought. Soon a car pulled up in front of him. Peter locked the door to his house and hid the key inside his leather wallet. He loaded his trunk into the back compartment of the pearl white car and climbed inside.

"Good to go?" the driver asked. Peter nodded his head briskly. The engine roared as the car made its way out of Peter's home.

The car quickly drove away from the house. It swerved to the left, passed through a toll gate, and drove swiftly down the highway. The driver used his free hand to switch on the radio. Tiny, round lights lit up at the flick of a switch, and old country songs began to play softly. Peter relaxed his posture and rested his slender arms on the empty seats.

   "Thanks a lot, Charlie," Peter said.
   "No problem. That's what friends are for: you can always find a place to hide from the police."
   "True, except that in this case, I'm innocent."
   "Say what?" Charlie asked.
   "I didn't commit any crime."
   "Oh really? Then why are the cops after you?"
   "Because I was framed," Peter told him. Charlie furrowed his brows.
   "I read the paper yesterday, Peter," Charlie began, "and when I saw your name in that article I was shocked. Surely, you couldn't be a murderer, especially of a young girl. I didn't want to believe it, but when I saw what evidence they gathered I felt pretty convinced. I'm not saying you killed your niece. I might be wrong, you know."
   "I know, Charlie, I know. But thanks for helping me anyway," Peter said.

Two hours had passed. The car entered the compound of a rather large house. Light cream pillars adorned the pastel mansion. Emerald green grass and meticulously patterned gardens enclosed the house in a colorful labyrinth. Charlie parked the vehicle inside the garage and helped Peter with his luggage.

The interior of the house was as grand as that of a palace. Floors were either made of velvet, varnished hardwood, or smooth marble. Antique furniture filled the house almost entirely, festooned with satin table cloths and expensive porcelain flower vases. Acrylic and oil paintings, kept in gilded brass frames, hung from the cement walls. Charlie led Peter up the stairs and to the second room on the right.

"This will be your bedroom for now. Make yourself at home," Charlie told him. He opened the door to reveal a small suite. A cut-glass chandelier hung from a single wire. Golden fleur-de-lis complemented the wallpaper's blood-red hue. The cloths and linens used were made from the finest and whitest Egyptian cotton and silk. An oak door, placed at the far left corner next to the queen-sized bed, provided an entrance to a private bathroom, complete with a bathtub and shower. Peter thanked Charlie and proceeded to unpack. By eight o'clock, he promptly descended to the first floor to eat dinner.

The night ended with a quick tour of the house and a briefing of the house rules. Peter noted every rule and kept them inside his head. He should not get out of the house alone. He should not stay awake past eleven o'clock. He should not do this, nor that, and many other things. Quite a lot of rules, Peter thought.

   "And finally," Charlie said, "never go inside the basement."
   "Why not?" asked Peter.
   "I don't know. My uncle told me not to go down there, but he never told me why."
   "You mean the uncle I met last month?"
   "Yes, that's him. He owns this house," Charlie answered him.

The two of them bade goodnight, retreated to their respective bedrooms, and fell into a deep slumber.