This bourbon really is awful.
Ethan could only laugh in reply. They were sitting in one of the city's swankiest bars, and they had come here expressly to sample its celebrated bourbon.
I couldn't tell you whether it's good or bad, he thought, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.
He took the pen he had left on the counter and wrote on his scrap of paper:
At least the glass is pretty, isn't it?
His friend burst out laughing when he read the note. Ethan was always amazed that a mute man could laugh, but he wasn't about to complain.
These evenings let him escape work and responsibility. Laughter had become his pressure valve—his way of feeling happy.
Of course he was glad to have a friend he could laugh with.
The man sobered after a few seconds. There was no trace of his smile as he scribbled on his own scrap of paper:
Do you have something to tell me?
Ethan saw the worry in his friend's eyes and wrote back as quickly as his hand would move.
No, I'm fine. Why?
His friend shook his head.
I can tell when something's wrong with you.
Ethan stared, puzzled for several seconds. His confusion came not from the bar's hubbub, the alcohol he had just drunk, or even the raspberry-scented perfume of one of the waitresses.
He was concentrating at two hundred percent, trying to figure out what was wrong with him. His friend was far better at reading people and was usually right about these things.
What's happening to me? he wondered, frowning.
He couldn't find the answer. He turned to his companion at the bar—only to discover the man had vanished, leaving behind a single, final note:
Why didn't you warn me that night?
Ethan jerked awake.
Perhaps he had screamed, perhaps not. He had struggled to hear the sound of his own voice these past few days. The housekeeper had rushed in the first morning to check on him but had not returned since.
That was for the best. He wanted to be alone.
He rose from the bed and automatically opened the wardrobe doors. Looking at his suits made him sick. Still, he forced himself, with a trembling hand, to take one: a gray suit that felt even heavier than yesterday—or the day before.
Halfway to the mirror he stopped short.
The pane of glass had been his first target when he lashed out; shards still littered the floor. His reflection made him nauseous.
He kept dressing as if nothing had happened, though he stepped on a splinter. Gray jacket, black trousers, white shirt, black leather shoes—and white socks now speckled with blood.
Doesn't matter... it's not as if anything does anymore.
Fully clothed, he left the bedroom. The mansion had always been too big for him, and today was no exception.
The white-marble staircase reflected the sunlight so vividly that he could see his sorry figure in it. The gray walls mirrored the feelings he had tried to bury deep inside his heart.
At the foot of the steps he noticed Amanda was already there, waiting in the entrance hall. He couldn't remember her saying she would drop by.
"Why are you here?"
He didn't want to see her.
"Am I not welcome?"
Her face never betrayed emotion. Was that reproach? He couldn't tell.
"Of course you're welcome. I was just surprised."
"Don't worry, I was joking."
Her expression showed no trace of humor.
"I came to get you. The ceremony starts in about twenty minutes."
She headed for the front door, turning her back on him, her red dress revealing her pearly back in all its splendor.
"Why did you come for me?"
"Are you even capable of driving a car by yourself these days?"
She answered in a biting tone without turning around.
Ethan knew, deep down, that Amanda was right. He hadn't been himself these past days.
"Why did this happen?" he murmured as he finished the last steps.
Amanda had already crossed the threshold and stood beside a huge black limousine that made his old pickup look ridiculously small.
He had always had the money to switch vehicles but never wanted to. The pickup meant something: it was the first vehicle he ever owned, a gift from his father.
"What are you waiting for? Get in the car."
Amanda sat in the back seat; her driver held the door. He waited only for Ethan to climb in before closing it.
The ride to the cemetery began in leaden silence, amplified by the limousine's excellent soundproofing.
A single glance out the window showed Ethan familiar faces.
Looks like they invited themselves.
He couldn't blame them; he would probably have done the same.
"What are you thinking about?" she asked as the cemetery walls came into view.
He opened his mouth... and closed it again. He didn't want to talk about it, so he changed the subject.
"I know it's hard to picture you in anything but red, but I still thought you'd wear something more subdued today."
Amanda raised an eyebrow but didn't answer.
"Sorry," he muttered. He shouldn't have said that.
The red dress had been John's favorite—the one she'd even worn on their wedding day. Ethan could also smell her signature rose perfume. That was the sole reason he didn't want to see her: she reminded him too vividly of John.
The atmosphere reset to neutral; Amanda made no effort to revive the conversation. The limo stopped in a parking space a few hundred meters from the gates. Amanda's driver stepped out to open the door for them.
The air was cool, the wind tugging at his jacket. They were the last to arrive; Serge already stood a few paces from the cemetery gates. He was the only person Ethan knew besides Amanda. His father had invited the man home for dinner several times over the past decade.
Ethan remembered a charismatic man in his sixties, sometimes rather cold. He had never grown familiar with the old man because John had warned him. He hadn't asked why, choosing to trust his friend without questions.
He was probably right.
Ethan stopped a little apart, and Amanda stayed by his side. At that distance no one could hear their conversation—not that he cared.
"What will you do when you discover who the killer is?"
Amanda showed no surprise.
"I'll kill him, of course."
Not the answer he wanted.
"How will you kill him?"
"A bullet to the head—or one to the heart."
He nodded slowly.
He had never liked John's being an assassin, fearing something would happen to him. At least now his conscience was clear, knowing the killer would meet the same fate.
Serge's bodyguards opened the gate as their brief exchange ended.
Ethan stepped inside beside Amanda, nodding to Serge. His father had told him he would be buried here; this was Ethan's second visit.
He had hated the first time; the second would surely be worse, with no family to help him through it. He swallowed his complaints and glanced at Amanda. He had no right to wallow, especially when she must be suffering far more.
He kept walking, doing his best to appreciate the peace and beauty of the place. His father had always wanted to rest here—a wish Ethan hadn't understood until he set foot inside.
The cemetery had a uniquely tranquil atmosphere, and Ethan could be sure no one would disturb them.
They stopped abruptly in front of the grave.
A photograph had been set into the white marble, taken years ago: John smiling, his dark eyes sparkling in the camera's flash.
He'd worn that smile on their rare bar nights—Ethan talking about daily problems while John listened patiently, laughing only at the most absurd.
And I didn't warn him that night... Ethan thought, a pang in his chest.
The wave of pain didn't even make him grit his teeth; he'd felt far worse in recent days.
He surfaced from his dark thoughts to catch the undertaker's speech:
"Ladies and gentlemen,
We are gathered today to say farewell to John, a person who touched many of our lives in different ways. In this moment of sorrow and grief, we come together to honor his memory and celebrate the life he lived.
John was a loyal person, known for his selflessness and diligence. His presence always brought compassion and respect. We will miss him and keep him in our hearts forever.
It is hard to find words to express what we all feel right now. John's loss leaves an immense void, but we must remember the happy moments and the precious memories we shared with him.
Today we say goodbye, yet we know his spirit will always remain among us, watching over his loved ones and friends. May we find strength in the love and support we share here, and may we honor his memory by living our lives with the same generosity and compassion he showed.
I now invite you to a moment of silence to reflect on John's life and what he meant to each of you."
The undertaker paused for several seconds of silence.
"Thank you all for coming today to pay your respects. May he rest in peace."
He gave them several moments to gather themselves.
"I'll now leave you a few minutes alone with the deceased so you can pay your respects."
After the undertaker left, a phone rang, slicing through the hush. It wasn't Ethan's—he hadn't switched his on in days. Most of the guests seemed to receive a call at the exact same moment. He turned to Amanda and saw she, too, hadn't been buzzed by that mysterious caller.
"What does it mean?" he asked the woman at his right.
Perhaps it was one of the many customs he didn't know. Amanda glanced at the handset she had left on silent and shrugged.
"I've no idea."
Neither did he.
The calls had been too perfectly synchronized to come from different people. The questions now were who—and above all why. As for how, Ethan already had a theory: whoever was on the other end might have pre-recorded the message, or be using an A.I. to answer in real time. With today's tech, both options were more than plausible.
BANG.
The report boomed inside Ethan's skull. He couldn't tell what weapon it was, but the shooter had to be far away. In spite of the distance and the wind, the youngest man at the ceremony was struck in the head. His body hit the ground, spattering nearby headstones with blood.
Ethan couldn't tear his eyes away, his stomach revolting at the macabre violence.
It was the first time he had witnessed death this close.
He didn't even know the victim's name or what he might have done to deserve such an end.
He only wanted to vomit.
Luckily Amanda stepped between him and the corpse, blocking the grisly sight. He'd had just enough time to see an old man throw himself over the body, trying to stanch the bleeding.
Ethan prayed the boy would survive.
As if mocking his prayer, the old man sprang up, screaming in pain and fury, "IT'S BECAUSE OF YOU AND YOUR SCHEMES THAT HE'S DEAD!"
Perhaps it was for the best that Amanda's back still hid most of the scene.
BANG.
A second shot tore the air, a second body dropping an instant later.
The sound was different—closer this time.
Ethan could actually see the gun: the shooter stood only a few meters away.
He was in shock.
What was happening? Why was it happening? Why were they killing each other?
The questions whirled in his head while his body refused to move. Then another distant shot snapped him back. Somehow he was now sitting, propped against a tombstone, the chill of the marble seeping through his jacket.
Is Amanda all right?—his first reflex.
He relaxed when he saw her, unhurt, beside him—no trace of worry on her face.
"What's going on?" he asked.
"A sniper's raking our position from afar."
Simple, precise, concise.
"Shouldn't we run?"
He scanned the scene, careful not to look at the two bodies. One guest was missing—a small man who had always seemed to smile.
He's probably clear by now, Ethan thought while waiting for Amanda's answer.
"Sit tight and you'll be fine."
"Do you know who the sniper is?"
"No, but I know the only person crazy enough to stage this masquerade."
A deep voice interrupted them.
"We've got a problem. Serge is blocking the gate."
It was the man who had put a bullet in the old guest's head.
"Would've surprised me if he wasn't," someone replied, still nibbling and sipping as though at home.
"My helicopter should be here soon. Need a lift?"
"No," Amanda cut in before her phone vibrated—she must have switched it to silent while Ethan was dazed. "I don't know what he's thinking and I don't care. If he believes he can walk away clean, even the asylum can't help him."
It was only a text, yet fury twisted her features.
"Since when did you know?" she demanded of the nonchalant man, no attempt to hide her rage. Ethan had never seen her like this, but the man merely raised an eyebrow.
"Could you be more specific?"
Amanda's gaze swung to the group's second woman—a pretty Japanese girl in a pristine white dress.
"That this bitch hired the killers."
"Please, madam! I had nothing to do with your husband's death!"
Ethan had no time to react before it happened.
PEW.
PEW PEW.
Why? he wondered as his mind went numb.
His brain registered only fragments: the steady crack of distant shots, the gusting wind, the muffled thud of his own heartbeat.
A helicopter appeared before them; Ethan hadn't heard it approach. The smug man climbed aboard, confidence wiped from his face when a rocket slammed into the craft.
The helicopter became a giant fireball, falling from the sky with a devilish hiss. The wreck hit the ground with a sudden crash, spewing a cloud of smoke over the area.
He could no longer breathe or open his eyes. He tried to open his mouth and had to shut it at once.
—cough—
—cough—
The smoke was too thick to breathe. He collapsed, still coughing; even the slate's cold couldn't cool the fire in his throat.
—cough—
—cough—
His consciousness wavered. Soon there was nothing but thin silence.
I hope at least she made it...
Death, it seemed, had a queue; after what felt like minutes, he heard his heart again.
What's happening to me?
He barely cracked his eyes before another fit of coughing seized him. When he finally came to, he noticed the change around him: most of the black smoke had already blown away on the fierce wind.
Someone just saved my life.
That was his conclusion on seeing that the helicopter wreck lay several hundred meters farther back than he remembered. As for who, Ethan had no idea. He couldn't see Amanda nearby, so it couldn't be her—unless she had left him here to check for survivors in the chopper. Plausible.
As if to confirm, he saw her emerge from the haze, holding a torn strip of her dress over her mouth.
"Thanks for saving my life!" he shouted, only to break into coughing again. By the time he could speak, Amanda was already just a few steps away.
"So—any other survivors?" he asked, though he already suspected the answer.