Fiona melted through the railing.
Swiftly, she bolted back.
Did you hear me?
No response.
Prentice! Fiona shouted, Did you hear me?
He threw back the remainder of his whisky but didn’t give any indication he heard her.
Fiona didn’t give up.
Read her journals! Look at her palms! TRY to understand her, Prentice! She shouted. Don’t let her go again. She needs you to fight for her! Fight for your happiness, for her happiness, for our children’s happiness! Fight so Bella can be free. Fight for ME to be free!
Prentice set his glass next to the three that were sitting on the railing.
Naturally, he took the bottle inside and put it on the bureau before he changed and went to bed.
Fiona glared at her husband as he lay in bed for a long time, arms crossed behind his head, head on his hands, eyes to the ceiling, sleep eluding him.
You’re an idiot! she snapped.
“Aye,” he murmured, rolled to his side and fell asleep.
Fiona considered throwing something at him which she could do.
Instead she dematerialized and materialized in Bella’s room.
Bella was lying on her back, arms crossed on her belly, eyes to the ceiling, sleep eluding her (again!).
You two are doing my head in! I wish you’d found some other dead woman’s husband to fall in love with! Fiona shouted.
“I do too,” Bella whispered, rolled to her side and fell asleep.
Fiona glared at her.
Then she spent the rest of the night with Sally.
Chapter Twelve
You Can Call Her Elle
Isabella
It was the blood.
It was always the blood.
It wasn’t her nudity, her open, lifeless eyes, her blue, bloodless skin.
It was the glaring red against the clean, stark white of the tub.
All she saw was all that blood.
Isabella screamed.
“Elle!”