Walls of Fire

17: The Aftermath

Adam Scott? James Black? Blake Stellar? In my mind, these three possible names tussled like pro wrestlers brawling in a ring for the championship memento. If I had to coerce an assumption amongst the trio of dudes, my rationality would have spouted out the name of my beloved husband: Adam Scott.

Plausibly, Mr Stellar could not be the proprietor of the red ride. His fashion of conversing spelled a boatload detailed amount about his fondness. A handful number of visits to his house abetted me in studying his personality more intimately. His house was simply, yet elegant. The antique collection of pots, wall hangings, utensils, instruments in his house brought light to his passion for acquiring knowledge about various historical events. He had an enormous bookshelf in his sleeping chamber. Though it may seem improbable, the ledges of his library did not contain books of the most trending genres: Romance, Science Fiction, Fantasy. Rather, travel books, non fictional historical books, fat dictionaries, volumes of mythological facts books were stacked fastidiously.

A preserved box of old cassettes deposited on his bureau was the biggest evidence of the golden-ager's fascination with retro lifestyle. He was outmoded. Yet, he could not be called as a conservative; he had built a versatile mindset. He had respect for the culture and tradition of the past but on the same time, he did not refuse to accomodate with the modern lifestyle. My investigation suggested that Mr Stellar, most soitenly, would prefer driving a classic volkswagen beetle over a ruby coloured automobile. A name had to be striked off from my list of suspicions: Blake Stellar.

I was not expecting a surprise from James Black. The reasonable explanation behind this was simple. He had deep-seated a permanent timing in his blood for returning home at night, and heading to his workplace in the morning to such an extent that making alternations was out of question. Mr Black's name had to be stripped off too.

Hence, I had to go with the last option. My worshiper was habituated to make sudden appearances with his false allegations which could prove his right on his wife. But I was no property, and I was primed to make him understand the correct methodology to respect women. Rogues like him who consider women as interiors are not any less than senseless beast.

Stomping my feet on the ground, I make my way inside the apartment very difficulty through the narrow passage between the entrance and the automobile standing adjacent to it. Even in my plight, my tongue did not clog from cussing the owner never, who was none other than the scoundrel spouse of mine.

I marched forward, and stood staring at the plight of stairs with a raging storm inside my heart.

Adam Scott you are gone now!

Your little coward Amy is dead now, and in no time, you will be corpse.

As I begin to flounce up the stairs, the ringing of soft laughter from upstairs reverberated around the atmosphere, arousing my suspicion to a new level.

More specifically, the laughter was feminine. The new hint ruptured enormous holes in my list assumptions.

Who is the woman? A burglar? James's relative? Or his lover?

The old list with three primary targets was renewed with a fresh list of supposition for the owner of the Red Ford in my kingdom of musings.

As a free-spoken person I had always been, considering a woman laughing all alone infront of someone's house seemed to me like a psychotic activity.