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Cora enjoyed the warmth of the sun against her skin as she moved up the steps to the large, ocean-side home. The scent of saltwater lingered heavily in the air. A picturesque scene of long beaches stretched far behind her, and she occasionally glanced back to watch as the water crested then broke. A private beach, too, by the looks of it. Only a few people from the other houses pockmarked the sand.
Cora reached the front door, knocked, and waited.
She adjusted a crick in her neck, wincing. Halfway through their flight, out of boredom, Stan had tried to show off some maneuvers.
Her neck was still paying the price.
Johnny sure did know how to pick them.
But now, standing outside Johnny’s parents’ house, she tried to think positive thoughts. Her stomach twisted momentarily as she wondered if Johnny had mentioned she was coming. And, more importantly, if he had mentioned their prior...fraternization.
The door suddenly opened.
Cora blinked.
The woman standing there nodded politely. A younger, Hispanic woman, holding a bottle of window cleaner. “Yes?” the woman said.
“Hello,” Cora said awkwardly. “Ms. Lochhead?”
“No.” The door shut.
Cora blinked. She shifted uncomfortably on the sandstone steps, shooting another look over her shoulder towards the surf.
A few moments passed, and then the door opened again. This time, a far taller woman with shoe-polish dark hair stood in the door. The woman’s hair was just a bittooblack and a bittooheavy for Cora to think of anything besides dye. The woman wore a neat blouse and pressed trousers. She had a wrinkled face that was clearly affected by some amount of plastic surgery. Portions were taut and vibrant, while others were wrinkled and hidden under copious amounts of foundation.
Paste-on eyelashes fluttered, and an equally fake fingernail gestured at Cora. “Are you Johnny’s friend?” The woman said.
Something else was apparent about the woman’s appearance.
Streaks through the eye shadow and the foundation—messy, ugly streaks from crying. The woman had a box of tissues clutched delicately in one hand, red-painted fingernails braced against the box. From farther in the house, Cora heard. “Who the hell is it?”
Before Cora could reply, the tall woman with the shoe-polish hair called back, “Johnny’s friend!” She then looked at Cora again, both eyebrows—also painted on—rising. “YouareJohnny’s friend, yes?”
Cora nodded, opened her mouth to speak, but was already being gestured into the house as the woman turned on her heel and moved into the large hall. “Come, come!” she called over her shoulder. “We’ve been waiting for hours.”
Cora hesitated on the doorstep and frowned. There was no sign of the Hispanic woman. No sign of anyone watching. So, with a faint shiver, she stepped from the sunlight into the dark home.
She hesitantly shut the door behind her, then fell into step, keeping up with the taller woman as she led them under an ostentatious chandelier and a curving staircase with lacquered rails. Photographs lined the walls, displaying pictures of family members. No pictures of Johnny, though. Cora frowned as she passed and moved towards what looked like a kitchen with polished floor tiles.
A man was sitting at the kitchen table, glasses perched on his nose and a newspaper in hand. He was currently shaking the newspaper and growling from his throat like a watchdog. “Nothing!” he exclaimed. “Not a damn thing—the bastards! They kill my daughter, then lie about it!” He slammed the paper against the table. His face was streaked with red. Perhaps this was due to a consumption habit hinted at by the wine bottles lining the wall behind him.
This man’s grief took the form of rage displayed across every crease of his round face. He had features somewhat like a pit bull: wide cheeks, a wide neck, a buzzed head, and dark, deep-set eyes. He wore an expensive suit, though, unbuttoned at the top, revealing curling chest hair.
Cora met the man’s gaze, then glanced at the tall woman. Both had temporarily forgotten she was there.
She hesitantly cleared her throat, resting her hand against a marble counter. The cold surface caused her fingers to tingle and contrasted the warmth of the sun still peeking through the windows. As she shifted awkwardly, still wondering exactly how much Johnny had told them about her, the two figures glanced up suddenly as if seeing her for the first time.
The man blinked a couple of times, as if certain he was looking at an apparition. The woman quickly cleared her throat, and said, “Henry, this is Johnny’s friend.” She said it far too dramatically, with a tilt of her paste-on eyelashes.
Her husband suddenly straightened up and smoothed the front of his wrinkled suit. He nodded at her and gestured quickly. “Come in, come in. Thanks for coming. We’ve been waiting for hours,” he added, emphasizing the claim that Mrs. Lochhead had made earlier.
Cora approached tentatively and lowered into a chair by the table, glancing between the two figures. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said hesitantly. She couldn’t think of anything else to add. It was a strange situation. She still didn’t quite know what she had wandered in to.
As if sensing this ignorance, though, Henry raised his newspaper. “Nothing,” he said. “They’re still not writing about it.” He threw the thing in disgust off the counter towards a small silver bowl of dog food.
Cora spotted evidence of a canine on the premises. Small tufts of hair gathering in corners of the kitchen. A bowl. A couple of pink plastic toys scattered in an expensive living room. The dog itself was nowhere to be seen. Unlike its owner, the thing wasn’t likely a guard dog, but rather shy of strangers.
