Here In Rosefalls | √

Thirty: Not like the TV shows

It was too easy.

"Aren't things like this supposed to be more, complicated?"

Layla, who was leaning on Beckett's shoulder, shrugged. The swift air caused the chiffon fabric to flourish lightly. The guy, a rather quiet one today only scrolled sports section on his phone, not further commenting.

The funeral was emotional, too emotional for me to indulge myself into. It was weird, to watch your best friend cremated inside an urn, rather than her usual lanky figure inside a coffin.

But it was her jailed father's wish, that wished for her body to be cremated, kept in their manor as long as the Purdoms' live there. Even if Alistair Purdom wouldn't be there for now.

Jasmine Beaumont was absent from the funeral, when the society was agitated for her return, except that she didn't make a return. People attending the funeral were stretching their necks and surveyed around, only to cause hushed whispers that brought nothing but news of how Jasmine Beaumont didn't come to her own daughter's funeral.

As I said earlier, it was way too easy.

There wasn't anything too particular with the funeral, after we bid our goodbyes, some heartbreaking speeches from her friends and families, it pretty much ended how I thought it would.

It felt incomplete, like there wasn't a proper closure.

Last night was a chaos. Where truth spurted out, unveiling those who claimed to be innocent.

At the corner of my eye, I saw Beckett stop scrolling news section as a drop of tear, landed on his screen.

He must've thought it was his fault.

Instantly, I grab his unoccupied hand and squeezed them reassuringly. Layla, being the clingy one, snaked her arm around Beck's waist, both of us engulfing him with comfort.

Beckett sobbed, reminded me of him crying whenever we pulled a stunt or deceived him with pranks, but this time, it was simply heart-wrenching.

"It's none of our faults that she died," Layla uttered, staring at the church's majestic backyard blandly, "They killed her. Falkov did. Otto did."

The thought of Otto, wrecked me. It was a stupid enough to join hands with Falkov, the sick bastard. All because of jealousy. The investigation regarding his doings was yet to complete, but the clip we received last night was enough to proof that he was guilty.

Who would've thought, Otto Lior, Gwyneth's boyfriend to become her murderer.

"Fuck!" he yelled, bleary-eyed and shaky fist, as he mourned her death. Gwyneth's death.

Detective Nim, who was smoking outside gave us a sympathetic smile, the strode away to give us space. Dragging along his fellow colleagues that were staring after Beckett shouting strings of curse words just outside the church.

"Shhh..." I patted his back as I rested my chin on his shoulder. "This wouldn't happen, she- she wouldn't die if I confronted Otto,"

"It was a misunderstanding, I s-swear," he wailed, tears streaming down his cheeks, snots flowing through his nose. The image of him, drowning in sorrow, were going to be etched permanently in my head.

"He is dead to us. I don't know any Otto anymore." Layla spoke with an ire, clutching tightly onto Beck. "No more."

My heart sank, knowing that I trusted Otto and stil tried to deny his wrongs as I watched the clip.

I repeated after Layla, still patting Beckett on his back. "No more."

☣☣☣