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In the Bedroom - Part Six #Vegas - The Routine

10/26/2015

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IN THE BEDROOM 
PART SIX
THE ROUTINE

​            Charles follows at a short distance down the long stretch of hallway leading from the library to my apartments. I glance over my shoulder, but his concentration flutters about, looking at the paintings and decorations lining the walls. George meets us and opens the door to the master bedroom, standing aside while I wait for Charles to enter. 

            "We don't have all day. I have plans tonight and need to get ready. It's not a good idea for you to delay my routine." 

            Craning his neck to scan the bedroom, he takes a tentative step from the marble hallway onto the cherry wood floor of my quarters. "Am I ever going to leave this room alive?" 

            Sighing, I push him inside and slam the door shut. Peeling my clothes off, I walk into the bathroom and spin the nozzle to start the shower. I want to wash the memory of the FBI man from my mind. Standing under the scalding water, I hear music begin to play. Bach, solo for Cello. I approve of the selection and can't deny that Charles does have his uses.

            "There is one question I've been meaning to ask, but haven't mustered the courage." I hear him inside the bathroom and turn towards the direction of his voice. Grabbing the scrubby brush and body soap, I squirt a generous amount on the soft bristles and begin washing my legs. 

            "Ask." 

            He clears his throat and a few moments pass while I enjoy the heat of the shower. "Your story, Birthday Cake. The one about killing your father." 

            I stop and wait for him to continue, but I hear nothing more. "Go on." 

            "It didn't happen that way, did it?" 

            Placing the brush down, I put conditioner in my hair and take my time rinsing it all away. I turn off the water and open my eyes. Stepping from the shower, I stand naked on the fluffy rug outside the glass enclosure, letting him look at my body for a few moments. "No." 

            Grabbing a towel, I squeeze the excess water from my hair before approaching my dressing table. His eyes study me, watching me go through my routine. I grab a round bristle brush and my blow dryer, which I set to cool air. While I pass the brush in gentle strokes down my head, I dry the tips of my hair to keep it from frizzing.

            "My father found the cake Ray got for my birthday and was going to call the cops. He'd been threatening to do it for days, but that was the last straw for him. It took...." I stop, not wanting to speak the rest of what happened that day.

            Glancing at Charles in the mirror, I watch his eyes examine my body, but I don't smile. Thoughts of father anger me. 

            "You have beautiful hair," he says, his voice soft and sweet. I don't know if he means to compliment me or coax me into continuing my story. 

            Closing my eyes, I pull the brush through my hair several more times. "Father always wanted my hair to shine, for me to be his little movie star. He made me brush it every night before bed. The routine was non-negotiable." 

            Putting the brush on the table, I walk into the dressing room. Running my hand along a row of identical white gowns, I pull one from the wall and hold it against my body.

            "What's the significance of the white dress? I keep reading about it." 

            "You're about to find out," I say, studying myself in the mirror. "It's time to get ready for a trial." 
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My Favorite Place in #Vegas - #Bellagio @Bellagio

10/25/2015

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Nothing prettier in Vegas than the Fountains of Bellagio at night. Any time I'm struggling to find inspiration for my writing, I simply need to spend time watching the show and hearing the music. The tourists mill about and noises of the city attempt to intrude, but when I am there, I can focus and just *be*. How much I love the Bellagio. 
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#SerialPlaylist - J S Bach - Cello Suite No 6 

10/23/2015

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In the Library Part Four #Vegas

10/22/2015

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IN THE LIBRARY
PART FOUR

            George leaves Charles and I alone in the library, the silence nipping at my brain while I sip the martini. His eyes study me and I can't say for sure how much he comprehends. Charles tends towards sullenness and doesn't volunteer his thoughts often. I tap at my phone and scan the playlist for a particular song. Making a selection, I sit at my desk.

            Every Breath You Take by The Police begins to play and Charles nods as he takes a seat opposite me. "I understand more of your stories now I believe, though I still have so many questions." 

​            Sighing, I finish my drink and ring the bell for George to bring me another. In moments George appears with a fresh drink and whisks away the empty glass, leaving us alone once again.

            "Tell me what you understand."

            "The men...you write about, it's all part of the routine. There are no casual encounters. You don't have any lovers." 

            Taking a large drink of martini, I follow along with the words of the song in my mind. "We have a regular Einstein. Did you come to that conclusion all on your own? Bravo." 

            "I..." he begins, but stops, studying me again. "In the stories you depict me as your boyfriend, which I don't understand. Ray is dead, why do you need this charade?" 

           Finishing the martini, I fling it into the fireplace and smile at the sound of shattering glass echoing throughout the library. Tears blur my vision, so I close my eyes before I respond. 

            "Ray is not dead. He will always live in me." I hold up the manuscript of Ray's book. "Do you understand?" 

            George enters with a tray containing two drinks and begins cleaning the broken glass in front of the fireplace. "One drink for you as well, Charles. Best mind your manners."

            Gulping the martini, Charles clears his throat and pulls his shoulders back. "But we are not lovers, Ella." 

            I grip the desk and count in my mind to let the anger flashing across my face subside. Locking eyes with him, I speak. "It doesn't matter what you say. It's whatever I write in my notebook. You do not exist."

            "So, Ray is alive and we are lovers?" he asks.

            "Ray is alive. Drop that tone in your voice. And we are lovers you see, in my mind. Nothing else matters. Nothing. Do you understand?"

            "I do."

​            "Good, finish your drink. It's time to go all the way down the rabbit hole." 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OMOGaugKpzs

Posted by Ella Thomas on Wednesday, October 21, 2015
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#SerialPlaylist - The Police - Every Breath You Take (Original Version)

10/21/2015

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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OMOGaugKpzs

Posted by Ella Thomas on Wednesday, October 21, 2015
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In the Library Part Three #FBI #Vegas

10/20/2015

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IN THE LIBRARY
PART THREE

​            Sweat trickles down my arm and I regret wearing pants and long sleeves instead of a dress. Lighting a cigarette, I maintain eye contact with the FBI agent, pondering replies to his question. Take your time. Do not let him rattle your nerves. I do not understand what he means by "Is your assistant alive?" The question makes little sense for I do not believe my stories gave any indication of danger to his life. 

            "My assistant is very much alive," I say, exhaling smoke in small rings to amuse myself. 

            "May I see him?" the agent asks, eyes boring into mine. 

            "Charles is...spending time in the library getting to know my husband. Is it necessary to disturb him? The last agent on my case didn't intrude on my work." 

            The agent laughs and checks his wristwatch. "The last agent proved corrupt and incompetent. I shall not repeat his mistakes. And, yes, I do insist on seeing Charles. In the flesh."

            Pulling a paper from his suit, he slides it across my desk. Opening the seal, I scan the warrant granting the agent right to search the mansion for Charles. 

            "I don't understand." 

            "Charles Smith, a resident of Las Vegas, was reported missing two months ago. Some suspect foul play." 

            Crushing my cigarette into the ashtray, I reach under the desk and press a button. In moments, George enters the study. "Please escort us to the library."

            The agent opens his mouth, but does not respond and instead follows George from the room in silence. Hurrying to catch him I walk along side the agent, my heels echoing in the hallway. George opens the door with a flourish and stands aside, allowing us access to the library. 

            Charles sits at my writing desk reading a manuscript and looks up in confusion when he notices our presence. The agent squints at me before approaching the desk. 

            "Charles Smith?" he asks. 

            "Yes. May I ask your name?" Charles tilts his head to the side, not understanding the intrusion. 

            "I'm with the FBI, Charles. Place your hand on this screen," the agent says, producing a phone type gadget from a pocket and holding it out for Charles. Following the agents instructions, a few moments pass. A green light blinks and a bell sounds. The agent shakes his head and places the contraption in his pocket. "Are you being held here against your will?" 

            "Against my will?" Charles repeats. "I am paid quite well to be Ella's literary assistant. I don't understand..." 

            Spinning his head round, the agent scans the library and finally turns his attention to me. "Where is your husband?" 

            "Husband?" Charles answers for me. Holding the manuscript out for the agent to peruse, he makes a circular signal with his index finger as if to suggest the FBI man might be crazy. 

            The agent reads a few pages of the book, flipping through with obvious irritation. "You said he was getting to know your husband in the library." 

            I can't suppress a laugh. "In a manner of speaking, that's what he's doing. He's my literary assistant. I pay him to read books and critique those books. Do you need me..." 

            He interrupts me with a wave of his hand, a hint of red anger rising on his neck. "Where is Ray Holden?" 

            "In the crypts below Holden Farms where his body has been interred since his death many years ago," George says, approaching with a tray. Handing me a martini, slightly dirty, he squeezes my hand and makes a thin smile.

            The agent places the manuscript on the desk and adjusts his suit. "I'll see myself out. Good afternoon, Miss Thomas."  
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#SerialPlaylist - Pink Floyd - Comfortably Numb

10/19/2015

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#SerialPlaylist - Simon and Garfunkel - The Sound of Silence

10/12/2015

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#SerialPlaylist - Lilly Wood & The Prick and Robin Schulz - Prayer In C 

10/8/2015

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#Fiction A Conversation in the Study #Vegas #FBI

10/8/2015

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A CONVERSATION
IN THE STUDY

​            Scanning the closet for a dress to wear to a meeting with lawyers about Hercity, I hear my phone buzzing with new messages. Ignoring the reminder that I am late for the appointment, I hold a white cocktail dress against my body trying to decide if the lace frills on the sleeves are too fancy for official business. With a sigh I hang the dress, George told me not to tease the lawyers.

            An alarm sounds, a loud blaring that makes me cover my ears. Hearing the racket through my hands, I know it can only have one meaning. Grabbing a blue pin-striped suit, I dress in a hurry and rush from my apartments. I hold my heels in my hands and run along the hallway towards the front of the mansion. A door opens and George waits for me to reach him before speaking.

            "The FBI man you met at the bookstore waits in your study." 

            Needing a moment to comport myself in response to the news and from running down the hall, I take several deep breaths to steady my nerves. Slipping my feet into the heels, I point towards the door for George to escort me into the study. With a flourish George bows and swings the door open, announcing my arrival into the room.

            "Miss Ella Thomas, Master of Holden Farms."

​            The agent waits at my desk and rises to greet me. Shaking my hand with a firm grip, he places his other hand on the small of my back, a gesture of familiarity we do not share. His warm smile does not reach his eyes and I doubt this visit will be a social call. 

            "I did not intend to set off alarms, Miss Holden. I am quite sorry to disturb your day and can assure you my intrusion will be brief. I only have a few questions."

            Taking a seat at my desk, I study his eyes while George prepares tea service. The FBI Agent feigns a cursory look around the room, taking an obligatory moment to examine my books. 

            "I've been following your blog. Enjoying yourself, I see," he says, turning his attention to me. Sipping the tea, he nods at George and smiles. George bows and exits the room, leaving us in silence for several moments.

            "Did you come all this way to talk about my fun with internet trolls? Is this what you really want to ask me?" I say, smiling at him and ignoring my cup of tea. 

            Mr. FBI man chuckles and puts the cup on the saucer. "It's striking the stupidity of the people on that Gamer Gate hashtag. Some assert you are not real, which makes them insane for arguing with a figment of the imagination. Or, even worse, the ones that believe the details you provide - threatening a billionaire killer? My, my, I do not believe you could make up such a thing."

            "Oh, the maddening crowd of mindless lemmings that make the internet spin round. Threatening a billionaire. These trolls do amuse me." I laugh and glance down at my phone, tapping out a quick message to Saul. Send someone to secure my apartments at once.

            "But enough with laughing at internet trolls. As I stated, I've been reading your recent stories and there have been some inconsistencies in details regarding your assistant in various...installments? I believe that's the word you use to describe your posts." 

            My assistant? Sipping at my tea, I wonder what theory this man imagines in his mind. "I'm not entirely sure of your meaning." 

            "I will be blunt, Miss Holden. Is your assistant alive?" 
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