OPHELIA: Chapter 30
Blurb
Elizabeth Lockwick wants one thing… to ensure Ophelia remains dead.
For years she’s weaved a life seen through rose-coloured glasses in idyllic Vermont with her husband Sebastian Lockwick, an alluring man with a broken moral compass, whose intent lies in protecting his wife. However, apart from her unorthodox understanding of Sebastian’s dark and gritty hidden nature, she finds herself slipping away from her sanity in maintaining this picturesque life.
After receiving a gruesome gift from an unknown sender threatening to expose her, she finds herself haunted and possibly hunted by her buried past.
In order to make things right for herself and ensure that her secret is hidden, she reluctantly travels back to her sleepy small hometown in Wisconsin. A town where young girls seem to be mysteriously disappearing. There, she reunites with the dysfunctional Pierre-Louis’, a French-American family who sheltered her in their manor in her time of need.
With time slipping away, she struggles with her guilt and a dangerous affair and realizes that perhaps Ophelia wasn’t dead after all these years.
Elizabeth suddenly finds herself caught in a game of cat and mouse, unsure of which she really is this time and who she can trust.
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Chapter 30
“Hey,” Charlie stopped and turned back to look at her standing at the entrance, “Be careful okay? Don’t do anything out of the ordinary.”
“You speak to me as if I’m a child, Charlie.” Ophelia smiled.
“You’ll always be that sweet little girl to me, Lily. No matter what.”
Pulling out her phone, she quickly tapped the screen and sent an alert to his phone. “Check it.”
“What?” He laughed.
“Just check it.”
“Live location?” Charlie chuckled and shook his head.
“I linked my location to you so that way you won’t have to worry about me getting lost.”
“Just like old times.”
“Just like old times,” she repeated with a smile, hoping that she won’t have to use it anytime soon.
The chilled air filled into his pores as Stefan walked towards his car. He needed to get away for a few minutes. To clear his head. The air within the manor was stifling. The rustling of the trees mocked him with their vibrant life as he drove along the road. There was one thing that had been on his mind. Father Greywood. He needed to understand. He didn’t to convince himself that he wasn’t the cause of Claire’s death like Ophelia believed. The car halted abruptly into the park of the church. The moon hung dampeningly low, somehow the sky silently wept in drizzles of rain.
The church door creaked open leading to the dimly lit altar. A family of four sat together up front while three or four persons scattered themselves amongst the benches. A little girl sat alone at the back, staring straight ahead to the pastor lighting the candles at the altar. Father Greywood wasn’t present. At first glance the girl looked distinctively like Claire from the back, that honey blonde girl, dress in full knitted sweaters. Stefan’s heart trembled at the sight, a short, soft, brief, living memory. Of course, it wasn’t. her facial features were paler and thinner than his rosy cheeked blue-eyed sister.
Closing his eyes, he leaned back and took a deep sigh while pulling out the little artbook from the pocket of his coat. He flipped through the pages as his eyes scanned the many paintings of the places he’d visited in Europe. There was something about the sky back there, it was laced with a tranquility. Something peaceful embedded within it. A sudden memory flashed before his eyes. Monty had just returned from his trip to Florence. He’d stuck the photos his uncle had taken on the bulletin board in the attic as the soft sun greeted him goodbye. Wet paint dripped from his brush staining into his blue shirt. He’d remember swearing as it was his favourite. The rich scent of the oils trickled into his nostrils. He allowed the art to consume him, to use him as a medium to create something out of his raw emotions. The longing he felt to jump into those pictures. The deep sensation of a yearned peace. The canvas before him was wet and full of promise, a reflection of what he felt within his heart. The sound of shallow footsteps neared towards the door of the attic. Claire suddenly bustled through and shut the door behind her in deep heavy breaths. How old had she been at the time? Was she six? Seven? He frowned at his lack of memory. Yet, her features were something he could never erase. Her blonde hair was short at the time and fell in soft curls at the tips of her shoulders. Her pink pout deepened as she shook her head for him to keep silence.
“Now what did you do?”
“Frère, no, quite!” She scolded him softly as her eyes widened in a childlike terror, “I cannot eat anymore. Mama is trying to make me pop. I don’t like her food.”
“Ahh,” he understood, stooping to her level, and swooping her up into his arms. “Look at this,” he pointed to the unfinished canvas of a table near open blue waters, “Would you like to go there for lunch with me?”
The little girl’s eyes widened in a sparkling blue hue, “Comme c’est joli,” she whispered softly.
“Very pretty indeed. Do you know what a pretty place like this is missing?”
“What’s it missing?”
Stefan smiled and kissed her on her cheeks, “A pretty little girl to sit at the table with me. Alas, you don’t eat so I guess I will have to find another pretty little girl?”
“No,” she pouted sadly in a panic, “I want to go with you and you’ll teach me how to paint too!”
“I promise you Marie, I will.”
The memory choked him back to reality. He felt as if someone had been stabbing into his heart over and over and over again. And just when he’s able to breathe, he’s again wounded.
“Did you paint that?” A soft voice asked near him.
The little girl around Claire’s age turned and kept her eyes fixed on his book. Her eyes, he noticed seemed to be red and glossy. Had she been crying?
“Yeah,” he answered in a sore voice, “Of places I visited.”
“Wow, that’s really amazing.”
“Here,” Stefan gave her the book to look through. There was something violently innocent about this girl. She reminded him too much of his little sister. He frowned taking note of the time, remembering there had been a curfew for the women of the town whom were unaccompanied by men, “Shouldn’t you be home?”
“Mama wanted me out of the house tonight, her boyfriend came over.” She spoke as if that was the most natural thing to her. Taking note of his concern, she smiled, “Don’t be worried, I usually stay with my friend Terilla on days like this. It’s just that tonight I rather be alone. My name’s Mya by the way.” She looked at him carefully, “I saw you at the funeral today.”
“Yeah,” was all Stefan could have said about that.
“You’re Claire’s family.”
“Her brother.”
Mya sat back on the seat and looked towards the man lighting the candle at the virgin Mary’s feet. “Do you think God forgives us?”
“Sometimes I wonder the same thing,” he admitted.
She returned the book with a smile, “Here. Maybe one day I can visit one of those places and see how beautiful it is myself.”
Stefan smiled at her innocence which reminded him of his sister’s. A deep sense of concern drifted over him as he looked at the young girl. He shifted uneasily. “Listen, I think you should get home. This place isn’t safe. Not even the church. If you’d like I can drop you at your friend’s house. I know you may not trust me, you have every right to be alarmed, if it makes you feel better I’ll let you call your friend and tell her I’m bringing you to her.”
Mya looked at him, almost astonished by his gesture. She was about to speak when suddenly the pastor turned and waved towards her. “I really appreciate the offer, but I wanted to speak to pastor Dennis.” She lowered her eyes, “I wanted to go to confession. I hope God can forgive me.”
“I don’t see why not,” Stefan assured her and placed his book in her hands, “Take it. As motivation. Soon you’ll get to the real place.”
Mya smiled and stood about to leave when she stopped halfway, turning back towards him. “I’ll pray for you.”
**
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