Outburst

Chapter 26 - Out of the Frying Pan

I retreated quickly until I hit the noisy washing machine. I was staring at the body as the chills starting to spread through my body. Sprawled on the floor motionlessly was Frieda. Darkened blood, formed in line, was staining her face and her skirt, as a result of her being shot when she was sitting.

She went home last night, I reminded myself. She should’ve been at her house, not here.

I knew I was really tired after going to the cemetery. When I could simply take a taxi, I wasted my time on purpose by taking the bus and walking. I did that because I didn’t want to arrive at home that fast. I thought I was having a delusion because my energy was drained, but I wasn’t. This was all real. Frieda was really lying on the floor, with her perforated forehead.

Grant said the maids were going home for a few days, that there were only three of them in the house right now. If Frieda was still here, it meant she never went home. And she was dead.

With my brain still battling this fact, my feet ran to the dining room. Grant’s name erupted from my mouth. It wasn’t an upset shout like I expected it would be. When I reached the room, I just broke down. “It’s Frieda... She’s in the laundry room and she’s—she’s—”

It was a heartless action of him to keep ignoring me, even if I was this panic and there was a dead body in our house. Then I realized that he hadn’t moved an inch since I saw him the first time.

He was leaning his body to the chair. His head drooped, eyes closed. He didn’t move at all.

“Grant?” I called him again, this time my voice lowered down. As I walked closer to him, I could see that his striped white shirt turned red, and it was coming from his left chest.

He was shot right in the heart.

A muffled scream was produced through my fingers. My breath quickened, but my shaking feet backed off slowly. I felt nauseated as I tried to look away from Grant’s body. He’s dead. Grant’s dead. It was only this morning that we were in the same room, having a warm chat, something that obviously happened only once in a while. And now he was sitting there, unmoved, dead.

Could they be dead before I got home? Was that the reason nobody opened the door for me?

Something suddenly hit my mind. My uncle. What if he was also—

I put aside my fear of him along with the fact that he probably was still mad at me, and decided to go to his study. I couldn’t run anymore. I couldn’t even shed a tear. My hand touched the cold door handle. I was scared if I opened this door, I would find my uncle with the same conditions as them.

Then I opened it.

Uncle Luke was sitting on his desk chair, with his left hand on the desk. He was staring at his work folders, but it was an empty stare. He was definitely okay. No gunshot wound or whatever indicated that he was dead.

“You should’ve knocked. It’s not polite,” he then said, tonelessly. I exhaled in a small relief because he was at least responding in a very ‘Uncle Luke’ way. “Come in and shut the door.”

I furrowed a little before doing what he said. Didn’t he notice my worried expression? Even though he wasn’t looking at me, I knew he could sense if something was wrong from that distance. But, no, the real question was: did he even know what happened?

“How did you get in?” He then asked while putting his head up. “I thought I locked all the doors.”

I gulped. Did he just imply that he tried to lock me out?