“Perhaps devotion and prayer will help you to prioritize your faith above your associations.” I vaguely heard him say as he began to turn on his heel. “My condolences on your loss,” he called disingenuously over his shoulder.
Numbness overtook me as I buried my head in my hands. None of the relief that I had anticipated materialized as I sat there watching him ride away. Malvina’s prediction from so many years ago rushed through my head like a river, the noise so great that I could not hear my own thoughts over her sage voice. Stemming my fertility was leading to her demise, and I could not allow it. I would break the chain of prophecy.
Chapter 11
IAN
“So, where is that girl from the other night?” Greg the bartender asks as he leans over onto the bar, too close to my face.
“Kat? I have no idea,” I say, affecting ambivalence.
“Are you going to see her again?” Greg inquires, leaning back against the bar, bumping bottles of well liquor carelessly.
“I’d like to, but she seems...busy,” I say with a helpless laugh.
“Well, you should try to hook up with her. I’d have thrown my hat in the ring, but she’s too ginger for me,” Greg lies, puffing up his chest, as though Kat would have gladly thrown herself at him.
I politely smile and recall Kat’s hair. It’s a deep mahogany, more than proper red and it’s glorious, like the rest of her. When I’d originally seen her in the lobby I’d only watched her intently because she’d seemed so familiar, but was soon unable to look away. First she’d been plucking away at her laptop, occasionally cussing and then she’d been lost in her thoughts until she’d been interrupted by another glamazon.
I’m not in the habit of trying to pick up women while working, but she had been something special, and her being based in my town and in the same profession made it feel like absolute kismet. Too bad she is inexorably in love with her ex-boyfriend. Sigh.
“Greg, my mate, her heart is clearly elsewhere,” I say as I accept the whiskey he’s slid my way.
“For your blue balls,” Greg laughs, throwing his towel over his shoulder and refilling the condiment tray.
“Salud,” I knock back the drink and shake my head as the acrid smoke of it coats the back of my throat. “Hey Greg, have you lived here long?”
“My whole life,” he says, trying to pile one too many olives into a compartment, watching in dismay as three fall over the side, trying to roll away for dear life. He shrugs, looks both ways and pops the mutineers in his mouth.
“Should you have been at that high school reunion? You look the right age,” I ask, watching as he fixes me another drink.
“Nah, I had just graduated when they came in as freshmen.”
“Did you know of Kat when she came in that first night?” I feel slightly guilty, because while I’d like to respect Kat’s privacy, I am not only insanely curious but concerned after our talk earlier. I’d looked up her name in conjunction with Bishop news and had come up empty. She hadn’t mentioned much, but whatever had happened had sounded like a big deal in such a small town. Perhaps her age at the time had kept her name out of the paper.
“Just that she’s a big-time travel writer and that we needed to roll out the red carpet and impress her,” he answers with a shrug. “I know that she’s from here, but she’s younger than me, and I’m guessing we didn't run in the same crowds anyhow.”
“She mentioned some sort of major event years ago where a girl was injured,” I dangle out, watching as his face turns pensive and slight recognition steals over his features. “Any clue what that may have been?”
“Oh wow,” he says in disbelief. “I bet it was that ordeal at the Madison house. Some crazy shit went down, but I don’t remember exactly what. Was she involved in that?”
“Perhaps,” I mutter, making note of the name. “What is the Madison house?”
“It’s our oldest standing structure in town, so it’s famous. It’s just a few blocks from here.” He is still looking as though he’s trying desperately to fill in the blanks from his spotty memory.
“I’m surprised I didn’t come across it in my research,” I remark.
“Well, it’s a private residence, so it makes sense to me. The same family has lived there since it was built,” he says with a shrug as he spears a cherry and pops it in his mouth. I’ve seen Greg graze half of the condiment tray in my time here. He’s a drink accoutrement animal.
“Same family from ten years ago?” I inquire, grateful for his guileless ability to impart information without reservation.
“Most definitely,” he confirms, now chewing a pineapple spear, the sticky juice dribbling down his sharp chin.
I nod my thanks, grab my drink and excuse myself over to the booth where Kat and I first spoke and pull out my laptop. I type in “The Madison House” and it is a wealth of information on a historical landmark. I find what I’m looking for after searching for tragedy in conjunction with the house, though I’m surprised how few stories are still online about it.
My eye pulls to the most sensational headline, and I forget about my whiskey as I read greedily.
Four teens involved in a drug-fueled tragedy at the historic Madison House.
Police were called at 11:30pm to the scene of a horrific tragedy at Bishop’s oldest landmark, a staple on Bishop Avenue and a private residence. Three teens were taken into custody and one to the hospital after they consumed alcohol, marijuana and MDMA—street name Ecstasy—and engaged in a popular urban legend game known as Bloody Mary.
Though known worldwide, it is lore that is popularly believed to originate out of Bishop
