Page 16 of Black Castle

And she would rather not stay curled up at home wallowing in her misery, especially since she doesn’t have any artwork commissioned. So she decided to do something new.

She hopes it will be exciting, at least. She can’t wait to meet new people—even though she bet a thousand bucks that she wouldn’t make one friend before coming home. But she will see new faces. She is tired of seeing the same flavor of people at school every single day, anyway.

She grabs her tote bag, cross checking to make sure she hasn’t left the book she needed the author to sign, then slings it over her shoulder. She picks her headphones, strapping it to both ears. And yet, no music. She loves music, but most times, when she pulls on her headphones, it’s not to vibe to a nice song, but to pretend like she is in a different world. So people won’t talk to her. It’s an old habit she got used to.

The slam of her wooden door resonates down the hall and she winces. It is an honest mistake. She will rather not let Isadora remember she is still at home on a Sunday.

She reaches the living room and can’t help halting. Someone left the television on.

Her brows pull together. The sight feels eerily weird. The TV in this house hardly gets turned on. Sometimes, Vivienne often forgets how very functional it still is, and not just a monument on display in a museum.

She should just walk past and be on her way. Kenji has waited for over ten minutes now, refusing to come inside because he hates Isadora and doesn’t want to risk a chance of bumping into her.

But the local news channel is flickering on the screen. It is a murder case. Murder cases always intrigue her. She doesn’t know why. She doesn’t have any plan of studying anything relating to solving murders. But somehow, every newspaper tucked in the drawers of her room have murder cases printed boldly on the front page.

The one being reported right now is a homicide at an independent motel in Linux Lane. Linux Lane is a town about thirty minutes away from here.

“Reports showed the victim had been staying in this motel for the past two weeks. But earlier this morning, he was found dead in his bathroom. Authorities suspect a drug overdose.”

A picture suddenly flickers on the screen. Although pixelated, it is unmistakably clear.

Vivienne gasps, her stomach tightening.

It is him.

Isadora’s boyfriend.

Vivienne’s grip on the strap of her tote bag tightens, the world around her dulling and shrinking.

Then suddenly, the slow, deliberate click of heels against the floorboard echoes. Vivienne doesn’t need to turn around. Right behind her, she hears Isadora’s exhale as if she has seen this coming.

“I always knew he was gonna end up this way.”

It’s a casual comment. But it isn’t. And Vivienne knows it.

Isadora has always scared her. Not because of the constant beating. But because after her father’s conviction, Isadora changed drastically. Something seems to have gone wrong inside her. She became cold, vile, and dangerously spontaneous.

Her words, her tone, be it a threat or a harmless comment, never means just one thing anymore.

Vivienne can’t shake off the doubt in her mind hearing this news. Sure, many people have died from an overdose in the past. But this? It sounds wrong, weird, incomplete.

It’s not a coincidence. This is not karma’s work at all.

The click of Isadora’s heel echoes toward the kitchen. Vivienne stands frozen, staring at the video as they wheel Josh’s body out on a stretcher.

The sound of coffee pouring into a mug breaks through Vivienne’s thoughts.

“When I was fifteen, my uncle sexually assaulted me.” Vivienne’s head snaps to Isadora, her lips parting in shock.

Isadora sits on a stool now, stirring her coffee.

“Just stay still, Isadora, and you’ll enjoy it.” A devious smirk lifts the corner of Isadora’s lips. “After this, you’ll see. You’ll beg for more.”

“My mom didn’t believe me. Two days later, he died.” A chuckle echoes in the room. “Doctors said it was a heart attack. But hey, what if someone got a little reckless and slipped too much of his blood pressure meds into his scotch whiskey? I mean, what if?”

The shock paralyzes Vivienne.

“You see.” Her gaze flickers to Vivienne. “Bad people don’t deserve some prison wall filled with chances. They deserve to die miserably.”

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