Post by Deleted on Nov 4, 2015 14:26:38 GMT -8
He read the message again, in disbelief:
You upset me, yesterday morning, Crispin. I've been up all night and day in shreds over it. Now I'm tired, and there's laundry that needs doing, and I'm hungry, and I don't want to cook. So I'll see you at my apartment at six. [ADDRESS REDACTED] I like the vegetarian thali from Babur in Forest Hill hot and accompanied by Koenig's pinot gris, preferably the 2013. We'll discuss your repentance over dinner.
Bitch, he thought, staring down at the text bitterly. You would think Crispin would be used to this sort of thing by now, but the man's ego rebelled at every turn. However, when you try to murder a woman by stabbing her in the gut with a switchblade and it's supernaturally repelled, rendering you completely inert, you should probably do as she says. And so he placed her order at the restaurant, grabbed the bottle of pinot she liked, and headed to her place. He arrived at six o'clock sharp and did his best to appear agreeable, given the situation. The seed of a plan had been stirring in his brain, but it was not until an hour in to washing, folding, and putting away her laundry that it blossomed, watered and nourished by hate and anger. He left a little after 10 p.m. and slept like a baby that night.
The following day he packed up his belongings -- the stuff he could take with him, anyway -- and took a taxi to Heathrow Airport. Crispin had called earlier in the day to reserve his ticket to New York, using most of the remaining money he had, now that Rose had cut him off. As he got to the ticket counter and took out his ID and passport, the woman behind the desk punched in his information and paused. Smiling apologetically, she picked up the phone and spoke to someone in a low tone. "Is everything all right?" Crispin asked. She held up a finger as if to say, just a moment, and then hung up. Less than a minute later Crispin was escorted to an interrogation room by airport security guards in plain clothing. Citing vague terrorist concerns, they grilled him on his reason for leaving the country and traveling to the US. They must have asked the same questions in a hundred different ways, and by the end of it he was mentally exhausted.
Incredibly, they held him in confinement without pressing formal charges for two days. Two days! And languishing in that cramped cell gave him a lot of time to think. But never did it cross his mind that Rose Sterling was behind his detainment until the very moment she walked into his cell to retrieve him. The Sterlings, he now understood, had more power and were more politically connected than he ever imagined.
You upset me, yesterday morning, Crispin. I've been up all night and day in shreds over it. Now I'm tired, and there's laundry that needs doing, and I'm hungry, and I don't want to cook. So I'll see you at my apartment at six. [ADDRESS REDACTED] I like the vegetarian thali from Babur in Forest Hill hot and accompanied by Koenig's pinot gris, preferably the 2013. We'll discuss your repentance over dinner.
Bitch, he thought, staring down at the text bitterly. You would think Crispin would be used to this sort of thing by now, but the man's ego rebelled at every turn. However, when you try to murder a woman by stabbing her in the gut with a switchblade and it's supernaturally repelled, rendering you completely inert, you should probably do as she says. And so he placed her order at the restaurant, grabbed the bottle of pinot she liked, and headed to her place. He arrived at six o'clock sharp and did his best to appear agreeable, given the situation. The seed of a plan had been stirring in his brain, but it was not until an hour in to washing, folding, and putting away her laundry that it blossomed, watered and nourished by hate and anger. He left a little after 10 p.m. and slept like a baby that night.
The following day he packed up his belongings -- the stuff he could take with him, anyway -- and took a taxi to Heathrow Airport. Crispin had called earlier in the day to reserve his ticket to New York, using most of the remaining money he had, now that Rose had cut him off. As he got to the ticket counter and took out his ID and passport, the woman behind the desk punched in his information and paused. Smiling apologetically, she picked up the phone and spoke to someone in a low tone. "Is everything all right?" Crispin asked. She held up a finger as if to say, just a moment, and then hung up. Less than a minute later Crispin was escorted to an interrogation room by airport security guards in plain clothing. Citing vague terrorist concerns, they grilled him on his reason for leaving the country and traveling to the US. They must have asked the same questions in a hundred different ways, and by the end of it he was mentally exhausted.
Incredibly, they held him in confinement without pressing formal charges for two days. Two days! And languishing in that cramped cell gave him a lot of time to think. But never did it cross his mind that Rose Sterling was behind his detainment until the very moment she walked into his cell to retrieve him. The Sterlings, he now understood, had more power and were more politically connected than he ever imagined.