Saturday, December 21, 2013

Chapter Eight: Mallory Cane's Point of View (Short Chapter)



Chapter Eight:
            “You must be cold,” I say to Grace, who is wearing green-ish capris and a pale yellow shirt. 
            “Oh, yeah.  I guess I am,” she says, looking at her clothes.
            “Come on,” I say, and everyone follows me back inside.
            Colette is still on the couch, fiddling with her notepad.  A small ding sounds.  Her eyes widen, and so do Lois’s.  Colette stands straight up in one swift movement.
            “I need to go,” she says, then pulls up a floor board, removes a backpack from the cavity beneath, and dashes out the door without another word.  She left her notepad lying on the couch.  There’s a message on the screen.
     CM NUMBER 078346105

     MESSAGE AT 1124 FROM [UNKNOWN LOCATION]

     I’m waiting for you.
     “Does anyone recognize the Contact Messenger number oh-seven-eight-three-four-six-one-oh-five?” Violet asks.
            Grace squeezes her eyes shut and puts her fingers on her temples.  “I know who it is.  It’s someone named Nadia May.  And Christina, the blonde who just left, she’s gone to find her, and she will succeed.  But I can’t tell why this Nell Marie person wants to see Claire, they look nothing alike.”
            “I couldn’t really tell what she was thinking.  It was all jumbled,” Lois adds.  “Also, her name is Colette.”
            Grace smacks her palm to her forehead.  “Right.  Bad with names, remember?  Sorry Louise.  No, Lee, no, you’re um –“
            “Lois,” says Lois, sort of sympathetically.
            “I’m going to find her,” Violet announces. 
            But before anyone can reply to that, Mary bursts through the door breathe-speaking something.  I can’t make it out.  I toss a glance at Lois, who looks absolutely devastated.  She notices me looking and I see a tear roll down her cheek as she looks at me with such pity that I want to cry myself, though I still don’t know why. 
            Mary slowly lowers herself onto the floor.  Her lips are still moving.  I lean down next to her face.
            “Malcolm,” she whispers, “is dead.”

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