Fifteen
Pretty
Candace Seever, died in her sleep. Greg Isley, accidental gunshot wound (had been drinking, thought gun was unloaded). Andy Alcott, fell off scaffolding; workplace accident. Rosalyn Bolduc, vehicle crossed the centre line.
Rosalyn’s name took Pretty aback. Roz. She had liked her. Moving on: Patrick Ice. Another gunshot, this time, “Hunting accident,” she murmured.
“I don’t trust them anymore, Petticoat.” “Why?” she whispered. And what were the odds that now they were all dead? ‘Devil’s Children.’ Had stalked her ear ever since last night when she’d said to Taylor—“Want an additional researcher?”
Taylor had texted her this list of names without hesitation, and now a draft crept through the soap shack as Pretty whispered, “Where did all the children go?”
Dead. And they weren’t just random children. Weren’t just stock, anonymous characters in a podcast drama. They were people. People Pretty remembered. Like Andy Alcott. He’d once acted out a mock TV commercial for his equally mock business, playing all the roles in the small skit himself. They’d howled with laughter. He’d had such natural comedic timing. Then there’d been Greg, dour Greg who, even though they’d only been using Monopoly money, had still been reluctant to invest on a pitch Vincent had made: “I’m too conservative for that, Haslom.”
Vincent had respected this careful rejection. Slats though, one of Future’s ever-changing volunteer academic advisors, had chastened Greg with the club’s own mission statement: Face Your Fear & Find Your Freedom.
As such, Greg became a reluctant investor…and lost every colorful leaf of his Monopoly cash.
And now by gunshot he’d lost his life.
Then Roz, sweet Roz with that amazing mane of red hair. She used to sweep it up in a banana clip, a waterfall of merlot. “Why don’t you date Roz?” Pretty had asked Vincent, pairing it with an elbow to his ribs.
“What makes you think I haven’t?” He’d waggled lascivious eyebrows.
“Did you love her and leave her? I swear, Vincent—I hope your dick drops off.”
“Nooo!” Patrick Ice had howled. “Pretty, you don’t wish that on a guy! Vincent.” He’d turned to him, all lamentation. “May your junk never drop into your trunks.”
“Amen,” Vincent agreed, theatrically big-eyed.
Pretty scrolled back over the names. Smiling. Remembering.
Coincidence. Had to be. The human brain was, after all, hardwired to see patterns even when none were there. It was their species’ way of making sense of the world.
Didn’t make it less sad, though. Andy and Candace. Greg and Roz…so different than the Acid Wash Mafia. These had been nice kids, sweet kids. Friends. And… “I should have made more of an effort,” she said, trailing a gentle finger over the list. “Stayed in touch.”
Although after she’d married Dellis, no one had really wanted to stay in touch. “Pretty and our teacher,” she’d heard more than one whisper. “Think they were…well, you know, when she was still with Joe? Was that why he cheated with Shirl?”
One person knew this wasn’t true. She added his name to the list of the dead.
Vincent Michael Haslom.
Meaning the only surviving members of Futures were her, Shades, “And Shirl.” Whose presence in the club had baffled everyone. “What?” Shirl used to say, defensive. “I have goals.”
Vincent, whose silence could speak more eloquently than most people’s words, would bore artic eyes through her like ice picks. “You,” he’d say finally, “have goals.”
He could be every bit as cutting as the Acid Wash Mafia. Funny, though, how that never occurred when it was someone on your side. That said, Shirlee’s membership in Futures had never been a mystery to Pretty. Shirl had been doing surveillance. Hoping Pretty and Vincent had something going on. That way, she could to run back to Joe, tattle, then take Pretty’s place at his side.
Now Pretty growled as she pushed back from her workbench. “Coincidence,” she repeated. “We get older. We die.”
Over half of us though? asked a small voice inside. And just in our 50’s?
She sank back to the bench, woke the calculator on her phone. Six of nine. She punched it in for a percentage.
66.66666
Devil’s Children. Flinching, she jerked back. “B-bull,” she said, shaky. “W-we were good kids.”
Good Devil’s kids.
Swallowing, she swiped back to her home screen. A red dot perched atop the green phone icon at the bottom. A voicemail. She tapped it.
“Hello, Petticoat!”
Her physician. She recognized the melodic accent and cheer.
“Your test results are in. I’d like you to schedule a clinic visit, please.”
Her belly free-fell. Results only needed an appointment when…impulsively, nonsensically, she reawakened her calculator. Seven of nine. What was that percentage?
At least it wasn't 666.
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