NationStates Jolt Archive

The receptionist is chewing loudly on a piece of gum, I like to think it's WinterFresh. The smacking and bubble popping resound off of the walls, echoing across time it seems. It's as if she doesn't know that someone else is in the room and common courtesy would state that you close your fucking mouth when your chewing gum. Her soft, dull blue eyes are transfixed on the computer screen. There's a high probability she's playing solitaire or browisng for another, higher paying job. I can tell she's not content with answering a phone, getting coffee for some pig boss, and having to cover for that boss whenever some crazy hopeful author keeps calling.

"Sorry sir, but Mr.Eckhart is at lunch" She'd say patiently but with underlying hatred.

"Impossible! He said he'd read my book-where the fuck is he?!" The frantic optomist would explode.

"Can I take down your number and let him know when he returns?"

"No! I'm coming down there and not leaving till he sees me!!"

Getting tired, she'd say something like, "Sir, I will call the police" in a very calm, subtle authorative voice that gets the point across that she's serious.

The line goes dead and she returns to playing solitaire while contemplating where she fucked up in her life.

I'm so wrapped up about how that conversation would go that I don't notice the fact she's addressing me, one hand cupped over the phone, desperate to get my attention without yelling.

"Excuse me, Mr.Lansing?" She asks, this time a little louder.

"Oh, excuse me" I say, embarrassed, offering a weak smile and the cliche excuse that I was miles away. I fumble for my briefcase and straighten out my cheap tie and make my way past her. I give another smile and a thanks which is met by a dull face and a roll of the eyes.

The inside of Mr.Eckhart's office is lined with bookcases and filing cabinets, adorned with trinkets of multi-ethnic origins. The impression is that he's a traveling man with numerous pictures of him at various famous landmarks as well as shaking hands with noteable authors, smiling at the discoveries he made, bringing his publishing company millions over the years.

"Mr.Lansing, it's a pleasure to meet you at last" Mr.Eckhart stands up and waves around his large, ornate chestnut desk. His hand feels soft, like most businessmen. never calloused by an actual hard days work or anything demanding of the body.

I tell him how grateful I am to be here and that he's taking my work seriously enough for mass publication and how I've tried so hard in the past with limited success but owe him the world for discovering me. That's right, I'm playing to his ego, that's what you have to do, whore yourself to their egos. Take me seriously and I'll give your sense of accomplishment a blowjob.

"The sample fo the first five chapters you sent were marvelous" he smacks his hands together, emphasizing his point. he gingerly tip toes back behind his desk and exhausts a sigh when sitting down, "I was captivated the whole way through. It gae such an in depth look into the thoughts and emotions of all those colorful characters and the ties that binded them together"

My reply, from behind a still grateful smile is something along the lines of: It took me a long time to engineer the backround for this novel, but when it began to flow, it moved as easily as blood moves through the veins of a healthy person.

"A truly exceptional piece of crime fiction" Eckhart continues, "Now we have to get down to brass tacks, have you sent copies to any other publisher?"

"No, Mr,Eckhart" I reply, "Eckhart Publishers was my first choice when it came to this novel"

"Really?" His suprise seems genuine, "I feel honored. Anyways, now comes the more trivial task of negotiations, would you like to review the contract?"

"Sure" I bluntly put it, not concerned that he's trying to fuck me, no one fucks me these days.

He rummages through the top left drawer and produces a packet of papers, my contract with the publishing company. At last, my dreams are becoming realized after years of hard work and determination. I deserve this. Yes, I've worked my knuckles and mind to the bone to get anything else. Plenty of peoplle said I wouldn't make it to this point but fuck them. They have no idea what I went through to get to this point. The watershed of all my hard work is placed infront of me.

"If you could just look it over, please take your time" He clicks a pen for me and eases it next to the contract and sits back down. "And just sign at the bottom"

I breeze down the agreements, amendments, obligations, and percentiles. A bunch of legal mumbo jumbo. My fair share is fair enough. The money's not what I care about. There's plenty of authors who will hire lawyers, and hold their breath like small spoiled children till they get their way. Not me, I c are more about the people reading my words. This particular work is my brainchild, the high watermark of an unsuccessful career. Now, people will know my name after this book hits the printing press. Advent readers will clamor into bookstores, right to the best-sellers selection and see my name in bold white letters and immidiately purchase it and steal away to their homes or during a lunch break to read my work. It's not just a work of crime fiction, it's a work of art.

"Tell me, Mr.lansing" Mr.Eckhart intervenes as his pen, in my hand hovers over the signature block, "I have to know something...Who Killed Mr.Smith?"

Three Months Earlier...

Meet Evelyn Ross, married to Detective Eric Ross of the NYPD. Together, they have two wonderful children. Henry is 13 with aspirations to be a cop like his dad. Then there's Paula, 16 who shows admirable talent in art. Yep, Eveyln seems to have what every woman is taught she'd supposed to have by their early forties. Of course, everything's not what it seems. You see, all of us have untapped and secret desires that we dare not act out or even entertain. Years of being in a sedate marriage can do that to a woman with certain...desires.

It's raining outside, she never liked driving in the rain, too dangerous she'd tell her friends, come over when it clears up. It's unrelenting, never ending it seems. The windshield wipers swipe across, back and forth quickly in hopes of clearing the winshield for at least a few seconds, giving her the opportunity to see her way down the road. This isn't one of her best nights mind you. Just yesterday everything was picture perfect. Living that dream she was always programmed to grasp at with every fiber of her being. But now, her face is contorted to a permenant worried expression. Just stay calm, everything will be alright. We'll deal with this and go back home and forget it ever happened. Eveyln's cell phone is turned off and she told Eric that an important business trip just came up and she'd be away for a few days. Eric's so trusting and loyal like a dog to their marriage. It's a touching truth that pangs against her mind. Like a sudden rupture in a gas line, she begins smacking the steering wheel frantically, as if the steering wheel is to blame for her current prediciment. Sadly, she subsides this violent outburst due to the realization that she is to blame for all of this.

Sitting comfortably in the passenger seat is a small package, addressed to her and already opened. It's shocking contents are the reason why she's pounding the steering wheel, rocketing down an unfamiliar road during a rainstorm to a destination unkoown, to a meeting unknow, to an unknown conclusion.

Just yesterday as she sipped her morning coffe while watching Good Morning America with Regis and that girl who needs a tranquilizer or something. Flipping through the mail, a wedding invitation to cousin Mark's second wedding. Jesus, what two-bit whore did he fall in love with this time? A few bills, nothing important. At the bottom is a small package addressed to her. Curiosity sets in suddenly, there's no return address, just a puppy postage stamp in the correct area. She feels around the package, nothing bulky or dense. Setting down the coffee mug and picking up a letter opener she tears into it and opens it up. There's an envlope that she opens again.

Dear Eveyln Ross,

Contained within this package is something of the upmost importance to the life your project to those you know and love. To protect your husband and children from your own devilish delights, please pay close attention-

Fear grips her so tight that she stops reading this note. It's like an invisible assailant, grappling her throat, all air is sucked out of her lungs. A thousand impossibilities clamour for recognition from her rationale. There's more inside the package and she gathers up e erything and locks herself in the bathroom.

No! This can't be!

Six photos spill out onto the counter and sink. Exposing her secret life, her disgraceful endulgance that must be obscured from light of truth. Another thousand questions pour into her mind, enveloping everything she ever knew. I was careful, how can this happen? The first picture is of her entering an exclusive club with no sign above, just a door with a red heart scrawled onto it. The other photos were taken inside. The debauchery captured on these digital images said it all. A sex club, perverse acts played out like a Shakespearean play for the world to witness. Limbs and lips intwined in temporary ecstacy. Nameless men, greedily enjoying her body as she lashes out in orgasmic delight. Groups of men and women conjoined into one massive heap of lust and adultery.

Eveyln sets down the photos, mouth agaped, shocked! There's still more to the letter...

-to the words written in this letter. If you wish to keep this activities a secret from your husband and the limelight, you must go to the address below, bringing $10,000 in cash. If you arrive later than 4:30 tomorrow afternoon, then consider your secret life a very public one. Once you hand over the money, then the negatives and remaining prints will be exchanged to you. I am not a greedy man and assure you that this will be the end of this nasty business we are engaged in. Everyone must pay eventually, right?

-Mr.Smith

The address listed was just south of Albany. Who is this Mr.Smith? A recap of her memory drudges up no one with an ill thought or grudge against her. Maybe some random person who does this sort of sick thing all the time perhaps? Or maybe it's one of the men she'd been with at that club who wants more than his turn with her? Dammit! She scorns herself for ever giving into her desires. There's no way around this, can't go to the police, her husband is the police! She begins cussing and smacking her hands against the sink, trying in vein to rip it out.

Now, her only concern is giving this bastard his money, this Mr.Smith who occupies her worst fears, the Devil incarnate. The past several hours of driving have taken their toll, not to mention the sleepless previous night where she lied awake for hours on end, trying to think and rationalize the situation. Finally, the turnoff neared. In her purse is a snub-nosed .38, her only negotiating tool left...

Now we observe one Henry Collins, defense attorney, ambulance chaser. He is sitting nervously on an old beige recliner with most of the springs broke in the seat. It's the kind of recliner that's seen its' fair share of asses in its' day. A weathered old recliner, aged but comfortable. It's an unfamiliar setting, an unfamiliar house, far from his home in Albany. The country never appealed much to him. Outdoor activities as a whole carried no luster with this inside man. Camping can be left up to hippies, hunting can be left to the redneck NRA card carriers. No thanks, he'll take the indoors any day. An older, yet still ambitious man with slightly graying hair and working on his second divorce from a magazine editor who blew half the men on her editorial staff. Not that his life was anything picture perfect. A man who's first steps into law were optomistic and beaming with idealism. Now, he's a dried up amoral husk of his former self.

What brings him to this secluded house in the country? Something along the same lines that are bringing Mrs. Eveyln Ross and her snub nosed .38. The letter told him to be there at 4:00. A casual glance at his imitation rolex reveals 4:24. Great, now what? This mysterious Mr.Smith made no other instructions except to be at the country house at that particular time. He'd actually arrived early, just out of habit. His mother was always early for everything, saying she'd rather be waiting than rushed. Henry felt the same thing. The house seemed like something out of a novel written by someone who wanted to capture the essence of their country upbringing. A farmhouse, old dilapitated stable. The house itself is a two level country house with chipped and weathered white paint. He dared not risk down the basement out of fear of basements. Something about the forboding decent into darkness put the fear of God in him.

We got off track, sorry about that. Mr.Henry Collins recieved a letter the day before revealing...wait, I think I won't tell you, save it for a rainy sequence or something. Too bad for you.

He placed the hand on a gym bag that contained $10,000. Procurring the money came somewhat easily. Of course, the bank probably sensed something was wrong but luckily they didn't ask questions. Being a lawyer had some benefits, such as pay and Henry charged for his expertise. Expertise-his court record isn't exactly like Babe Ruth's batting average. Most defense attorney's have dismale records because most of the time their clients are guilty. Now, Henry's gotten some people off who probably needed to be sent to prison but are free nonetheless. He never sweated the moral aspect of his job. The only time he ever gave an inch of emotion is when a Freddy Ferguson, charged with battery against his girlfriend, was freed due to Henry's defense. A grateful Freddy clasped his hand tight and said "Thanks boss, I got some stuff to take care of" and walked away never to be heard from until on the evening news a week later for killing his girlfriend.

Of course, he got over it rather quickly, shrugging this incident off as a fluke. Now, sitting on that beige recliner, his mind kicks back to that fateful day two years ago as a possible way to determine who this Mr.Smith is. Maybe a relative or friend of the murdered girlfriend? No name comes to mind nor threats. Damn, all he can do now is sit and anxiously wait...

As Henry sits on that beige recliner, there's a slow creeking from the kitchen. It sends his nerves to their feet, sounding off like soldiers in formation. He finds himself on the edge of the recliner, fingertips digging into the arm rests, carving out sections almost. Could this be Mr.Smith? A few moments pass without aymore sounds. Perhaps it's just his over active imagination. Your imagination is sadistic when ti comes to your nerves. It warps every sound and shadow around you, playing against your suspicions. Like a child burning ants with a magnifying glass, chuckling at its' handywork.

"Hello?" Henry eeks like a mouse. Now he slowly gets out of the recliner, struggling because the springs are long since shot. The gym bag goes with him on this mission to the kitchen, reluctantly of course.

The kitchen is silent, refusing to give up any clue as to what made the sound. Nothing looks like it was disturbed. The door is closed, but is it locked? Henry walks past the kitchen table which actually has a vase with roses, fresh roses oddly enough. This catches his eyes. Were these here before? He tried to think back to an hour ago when he combed through the house but memory fails to recollect this detail.

"Who are you?" a voice asks from behind. Henry loses his nerve and almost lifts off the ground while simultaneously making himself as samll as possible. His voice is high pitched like a scared girl.

"Jesus!" Henry shouts, startled out of his mind, already on nerves and unable to stomach anymore.

"Sorry, man" the voice apologizes. Henry turns around to see another man with black rimmed glasses, scruffy face, thick black hair, a little on the big side. The face is round with two hazel eyes blinking behind those black rimmed glasses.

"Who are you?!" Henry steps back against the counter, dropping the gym bag.

"Uh-David Lasker" David replies, palms outward, facing Henry to prove he holds no hostile intents, "Yourself?"

"M-My name's Henry Collins-what are you doing here?" Henry can feel his ehart trying to escape from his ribcage but being held captive by his ribs.

David looks around the corners, as if checking to see if anyone is listening, "I got some letter yesterday telling me to come here"

"You too?" Henry blurts, "What did your letter say?"

"It's personal, man" David becomes defensive, almost offended, "Where's this Mr.Smith?"

Henry finally calms down and feels almost relieved that he's not suffering from Mr.Smith alone, "Beats me. I was just instructed to be here at a certain time"

"Damn" David cusses, disappointed, "Now what happens?"

"Why are you askign me?!" Henry exclaims, "I don't know shit. All I want to do is get this whole thing over with!"

"Calm down, man" David instructs, "Just stay calm"

"That's easy for you to say" Henry combs his fingers through his hair, blowing out an exhausted puff of air.

The two of them now enter that awkward silence which affects every conversation. It happens suddenly and there's no way around it. The void left by this silence is vast but will end abruptly. For now, each of them trys to figure out the other, eyeing them up, drawing their own conclusions about the other. Beads of sweat roll down and collect at Henry's chin, hesitant about that final drop.

"I'm gonna sit down, there' no point standing around the kitchen like idiots" David shatters the silence with a sledgehammer. He departs and Henry quickly follows, not wanting this David Lasker to escape his sight for even the shortest moment.

"What do you do?" David inquires as he sits down on a couch.

"Why do you want to know?" Henry goes on the defensive, shields up, ready for anything.

David cranes his neck, "Sorry, when I'm nervous I keep talking"

"I'm a defense attorney" Henry straightens his tie and sinks back down into the beige recliner, "Yourself?"

David chuckles to himself and removes his glasses, examining the surfaces for any imperfections and dust, "I'm a writer, albeit an amateur one"

"I always wanted to be a writer" Henry admits, "But I just never started"

Let's meet another stranger who is about to introduce himself unknowingly to the others. Detective Joe Santini, a veteran of the NYPD. His first six years were as a beat cop, driving the famous Crown Vic, chasing suspects, and arresting wife beaters. Then, the past ten years were as a detective for Homicide Division. Joe's seen everything in his hardened days as a detective. Crack addicts shoved into ovens. People stabbed to death with shards from collectable plates, not to mention the guy who constructed some sort of mouse trap-esque contraption to kill himself, the guy was an engineer all hopped up on anti-depressents which seemed to have failed.

His marriage is on the rocks due to the stress wrought on by the job, odd hours, and alcoholism. Meredith promised on their wedding day as did he, to see this through thick and thin, through sickness and health, all that shit. They struggle day to day with a daughter trapped in the middle who is growing more and more detached from her father and came home last week with a piercing. An act of rebellion against her father to which he could not counter and instead shouted till his voice ran dry then obsconded away to the liquor cabinet and bolted down two shots worth of Jack Daniels.

Yesterday he recieves a package that has propelled him to this uncertain point. An ominous package with no return address. Inside were contents from his past, a past he perferred to keep just that-the past. He called in a few sick days he'd chalked up but never imagined using them for something like this. What am I going to do? He wondered before talking the long drive to this secluded address. The $10,000 was impossible to come up with. Thy had a joint account and much of the money was tied up in a savings account for that house Meredith wanted. Joe intended to take early retirement, that's one of the options Chief gave him and he took it, desperate to salvage his family and a last ditch effort to maintain. A desperate cop on the way out the door. Meredith didn't ask questions, citing it was best to give him some time and space to free up his mind from this cloud which suffocated him for so long. Just when he thought it was over, someone found it and is now exploiting it.

He makes the turnoff onto a long dirt road which is now thick with mud from the rain which is luckily beginning to relent. It's an uneven road with plenty of ruts and nearly gets his truck stuck in the mud but manages out. Up ahead he can see the outline of a house with lights on. Finally, I'm going to end this. He had only one plan he could think of. There's no other alternative, Mr.Smith is threatening everything he'd work so hard for. His jaw set and gripped the steering wheel tight as he pulled up to see two cars already parked. He stepped out and zipped up his windbreaker and noted the license plates to memory. Both the engine blocks were cold. Joe rounded around the house, hunched down and peaking through the windows, trying to get a better view of the inside. He decided against pulling his weapon and finally stopped in the rain. His hair became flat and damp. What am I doing? There's no point in playing Dirty Harry, he'd have to play by Mr.Smith's rules for now. So, he hurried up the three steps and onto the porch. The screen door opened and knocked on the door...

Just as Joe is about to enter the unknown, another wayward stranger is stranded just a few miles down the road. This unlucky traveler and blackmailee is one Jody Moss, assistant prosecutor. She's a young, ambitious, and smart young woman steadily climbing the ladder of law with eyes set on being district attorney one day. Her blonde hair is drenched as she sinks her head down below the open hood of the truck to inspect her car's engine which suddenly and unexpectidly died. Luckily the rain is easing up but not completely gone. It's impossible to see so she manages around, mindful of the traffic, albeit light, traveling down the road. Returning with a flashlight she sweeps across the engine, not even sure what she's looking at. Automotive repair was not her strongest point nor interest. Jody always relied on the grease monkeys ate JiffiLube to fix her car. Sadly, there's not a grease monkey in sight or hearing and she's left to her own inept automechanic skills. Is there no more radiator fluid? What about that oil thingy? Where's the dipstick to check? Frustration boils over into a temper tantrum as she smacks the open hood and grunts loudly.

"Great, what now?" she says aloud and decides to close the hood. Back inside the car she turns on the emergency flashers and prays that a good summaritan pulls over to lend assistance. Much to her dismay, the road becomes suddenly quiet and devoid of any other motorists. Her watch gives the dismal time, she's late. Dammit! She sacks the back of her head against the head rest again and again and again then settles down, eyes rolled up to stare a hole through the roof. Drops of water travel down her forehead. She wipes it away with a possible tear. This is the worst night of her life. Due to being away at her boyfriend's apartment yesterday, she didn't get the package until this afternoona dn prompty called in sick and cancelled her appointments.

Who is this Mr.Smith? How did he find out? This is impossible-I didn't tell anyone! No one in her mind could've know about it. No possible way! It was so minuet, so small and so eays to be left out unnoticed by the defense. She had to do it, she needed this case to go her way, she needed to impress her boss with her expertise. Jody only bit off more than she could chew but found a way to fit the square peg in the round hole. It was all perfect, they won the case and she got recognition for a job well done, a case well prosecuted and executed. A small little white lie never hurt anyone, right? That's what she led herself to believe and wiped her mind clean with Pinsol and never thought of it again, at least not until today. Maybe she just ran her car too hard? The cause doesn't matter, only the effect. The effect could very well end her career at the hands of some mysterious blackmailer who controlled her with the power of the truth. The truth can be far far more powerful than a lie. Lies can build a fabricated throne of success and prosperity, but the truth can destroy it and you.

As she sinks into depression at this latest turn of fate, headlights appear in her rearview mirror. Two ominous orbs blinding in their light. At last! Someone has finally come to help her. Of course, what to do now? Should she ask the driver to just go to the nearest town or to the address? There's no way around this problem. A shape appears at her window, rapping a knuckle against the glass.

"Need some help?" the stranger asks as she rolls down the window, offering a weak smile.

"Yes, thank you!" Jody gratefully says, "I seem to be having some car trouble"

He bends down, tipping up his baseball cap, "I'm not too good with cars either, ma'am" he shrugs his shoulders.

I have to think quick, make up something, "Uh-can you just drop me off...I'm visiting my cousin who lives just a few miles up the road" she asks

"Sure, it beats sleeping the night out in a car, right?" he laughs

Jody grabs a briefcase and launches out of the car, the rain is picking up again much to her dismay and the two of them return to his car. Inside, she shakes out her hair, running a hand through it in a vein attempt to dry her hair.

"I can't thank you enough" Jody says

"No problem, the names Frank Hensler" Frank replies, pulling his car from the side of the road, adjusting the mirror again, "A real shity night, eh?"

"You're telling me" Jody closes her eyes for a moment, "I'm Jody by the way"

"Visiting your cousin, eh? Where does this cousin live?"

"Just a few miles up the road, there should be a turnoff on the right" Jody recollects from the instructions detailed by Mr.Smith.

As time slipt by unnoticed, David became anxious, his foot tapping to some unknown song with a fast beat. A rythmnic chorus of nervous choraliers chanting away. Once again he removes those black rimmed glasses and gives them a good polish.

"I think they're clean" Henry muses, arms crossed, eyes fixated on the grandfather clock. It ticked and tocked, mockingly. It loomed overhead, tall and slim but poweful in its' message. The longer they waited, the more Henry theorized that this is all some sick game.

"Sorry" David replies bashfully, placing the glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose.

As they lulled back into uncomfortable silence, Joe appears in the door frame leading from the hallway. His face speaks volumes of bewilderment and awe. At this moment, overtones of something larger echo through his mind.

"Either of you Mr.Smith?" He chances, but meets slow shakes and sullen looks, "Damn!"

"What the hell is going one?!" Henry fumes, shooting up from the beige recliner once again, "I mean-seriously? I didn't do anything, there's no reason for me to be here"

Joe gave an exhausted look, "You must've done something, like all of us to end up here."

''This is absurd. To think someone can just blackmail a large group of people, drag them out to this location and expect us to pay?" Henry continues

"Calm down, Mister" Joe says. His next words were going to be something along the lines of I'm a police detective. Of course, then they'd look to him for answers as to why they're there and as a beacon of hope. No, how could he go on to explain why he's there. No, they can't know about his secrets and could care less about theirs. But that cop instinct, that gut feeling began to sound off, nudging his shoulder trying to explain that there's something bigger here, an unknown equation containing countless what ifs and possibile avenues.

"No, I'm not going to calm down!" Henry's chest rises and falls quicker, adrenaline pumping, fight or flight instinct taking over, "This is all some game, some bastard playing against out paranoia. If we just leave and go to the police, everything will be alright, right?"

Joe's mind pauses, unable to handle the data. No, we can't go to the police. Think, dammit, think, "Is that what you really want to do?"

For a moment, henry's mind wipes clean of any expression, a blank canvas ready to be painted, "I-I'm not sure"

"I just want to get this over with" David interjects, "Maybe this Mr.Smith will keep to his word"

"Doubtful, these kind of guys I'm sure will just keep asking for more" Joe repulses the idea, he knows better than these two how blackmailers really work. His buddy, Marcus Greene, another detective deals with these scumbags all the time.

"Then what do we do?" Henry cups his mouth, grasping the gravity, overwhelming.

Joe runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head. I wish I knew

In her SUV, Evelyn Ross contemplates her next move. Having observed another person enter the house, more problems arise. Now, this seems to no longer be a private affair, but some sort of exclusive club for blackmailees who are ashamed of their secrets. A woman who spends so much time, not only applying makeup to her face but also makeup onto her soul. It takes alot of blush, eyeliner, and lipstick to absolve one's sins. It reassures her that by burrying herself liek that, then maybe those skeletons will stay buried. She buries her face into the steering wheel and gives a few good sobs.

To think, all she had to do was just say 'no thanks'. That's right, it's that simple. Sometimes saying no can change your life's direction forever. It all started as idle chitchat with her girlfriends over lunch last Summer.

"Kyle just doesn't do it for me anymore" Renee joked, rolling her eyes. They were seated around an outside table next to a cafe. The Summer sun beat down but was interrupted by decsent cloud cover, just like the weatherman predicted. usually, Eveyln's skeptical about the weather reports but this gave a surge in confidence.

"Oh hush" Eveyln chuckled as did the others. The snickered like school girls in the bathroom, "He's so nice"

"That's the problem, Eve" Renee takes a sip of ice tea and sets the glass down, "He's too nice"

Evelyn recaps the good qualities in Kyle Vargas, he's a successful insurance agent, they seem to have the perfect life, as did she, "What's wrong with that?"

"He just...he's not adventurous enough" Renee leaned in, another woman chimmed in and agreed that her man seemed to be lacking that passion in the bedroom these days.

"Nonsense" Eveyln is the only one defending Kyle

'What about your sexlife?"

"W-We're just fine" Eveyln reddens slightly

Renee spots this, "Look at you, getting red like an apple over some chitchat. Look, I'm going to try this new club I heard about, not to pick up any boy toys or nothing, just looking for some fun. Wanna come?"

Temptation sets in and seeps into her mind, should I go? No, what will my husband think? Eveyln hadn't visited a club or gone out on the town in years and this might be the medication needed to clear out her stuffy life.

"Sure, why not?" Eveyln agrees, "Could be fun"

Could be fun? Well, it was fun up until yesterday. It ignited a passion long since thought dead and cold. No, like a phoenix her passions returned to burn brighter than ever. Lost is pleasure and bodily delights, rousing every nerve in her body and tunning them to the same beat. Lost in an ocean, drifting away from that life, that boring life! Eric could never know, he wouldn't understand her needs.

It was a powerful movement indeed. Shifting her beliefs to a whole new universe. Now her memory reels back to the letter and the last line: Everyone must pay eventually, right? That couldn't be any farther from the truth. It's like Mr.Smith, her torturer, knew exactly everything about her darkest secrets and desires. Perhaps he was one of the patrons to that club? That's the only way anyone could know. It doesn't appear impossible, not an unbelieveable notion at all. Karma, that universal force behind everything, the one thing no one can escape from, has finally caught up with her. Is this my punishment?

Eveyln never put much thought into karma before, believeing that your past is your past and will remain such for all time. But then there's people who bring the past to light, that shameful skeleton in her closet came to life and shakily made it's precense known. She finally decides to face destiny and fate at the same time.

"Hello?" Eveyln pokes her head into the house, seeing the others gathered around. She reluctantly sets down her purse, attempting to maintain an air of honor, not wanting to lower her image to the others.

"Looks like there's another, geez" David utters, folding his hands behind his head, arching the back out, cracking the spine.

Almost instantly, the timer that no one noticed previously on the dvd player to the tv blinks and beeps. All attention is drawn to it as the tv comes to life automatically. Henry's mouth drops.

An image appears through the fuzz, cloaked by well placed shadows, the outline of a man, "Good evening" the prerecorded tape begins. The voice is altered by some machine of sorts, making it almost non-human, a menacing tone like something from the depths of the darkest pit of hell.

"Each of you has a secret...A secret life...a secret desire...a shameful secret" the voice continues, "Tonight, we will examine those secrets frm every angle, leaving no stone left undisturbed. Everyone has to pay eventually, right?"

I was enjoying this. Are you going to continue?

OOC: I'm having some writer's block at the moment, but I promise more in the enar future, sorry for the inconvenience.