The Bone Cutter

Chapter Thirty-Three

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Chapter Thirty-Three 

The next day went by quicker than I had hoped. My father and I spent the entire day at the Portland library, and then we got ice-cream and walked down the river. Everything felt blissful, but something was deterring me from enjoying the daydream. That night my father and I, again, sat on the couch and watched television, this time I payed a bit more attention to the current events, but they bored me, and I found most of them irrelevant. 

When I woke up the next morning, a pair of hands were on my arm shaking me awake. I instinctively swatted at the hands, spitting a mouthful of curses at Inanis for coming into my bedroom.

But it wasn't Inanis. It was my father. I blinked a few times before realizing I wasn't at the mansion with my husband. I was here in Oregon, with my father.

"Mirea." My father ignored the awkward curses he received, and continued on to explain why he woke me, "Messor is on the television. He's working without you, do you not understand what a good sign this is? The more he is without you, the lesser he will want you around."

All I heard was Inanis was on TV. I threw off the blankets and ran down the stairs to the living room, where, just as my father said, Inanis was eyeing the camera with his usual conceited smirk.

He was sitting in an elegant marble room. He wore a black coat with gorgeous diamonds embedded in the fabric. He had a pare of white gloves on, along with white pants, and shiny black boots.

He looked gorgeous, as always. I hated it, but it also warmed me to see.

Sitting beside him was a middle-aged man wearing an expensive suit. I assumed he was the interviewer. I didn't even know Inanis did interviews, but then again, he always was busy doing something, and I rarely bothered to ask what it was that he was busy with.

"So," The interviewer asked, "America wants to know, why was Mr. Rodney spared from execution?"

So that's what this was. It was damage control for Inanis changing victims at the last moment. I was curious to hear my husband's answer, so I sat on the couch, and my father sat beside me, and together, we watched.

Inanis fiddled with the hem of his glove, as he stared from the interviewer, to the camera, to his hand, "It's always such a difficult thing." He began, his voice smooth and controlled like it always was, "To decipher who America wants justice from more. With this being my wife's first killing on stage, I wanted to make it memorable. I wanted to make it extravagant. How extravagant is a mere man who cheats on his wife? It's dull, it's boring, it's nothing to me." He waved his hand, as if to conclude that topic.

The interviewer grinned, "Ahh yes, your wife, the Harvester, where is she now? We were told she couldn't make it to the interview."

Inanis's face did not waver, "Mirea has more important matters than this, I'm afraid."

"Important matters? Is she alright?"

"She is quite alright, in fact, it seems I may be the one that is not so alright." His eyes find the camera, and I know that he knows I'm watching. "Marriage is such a fickle thing." He continues, "I've forgotten how easy it is to get lost in the ups and downs of such business."

"It sounds like there's a bit of trouble in paradise." What an unprofessional interviewer, but a bold one at that. He knew how to get gossip started, and that's all he and his company needs for a ticket in the spotlight.

Unprofessional or not, it was a genius tactic.

Inanis didn't take the bait, "What my wife does is irrelevant to me. There is no 'trouble' in our marriage, and any drama you wish to seek will not be found, as there is none that is worth speaking of." There was a cool expression on his face, as though he had rehearsed what to say a million times.