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Hi, everyone. Thank you for reading my stories.
We traveled to Charlotte’s home. Victor wanted to explain in person to his mother that Caprica was alive and safe. It was the right thing to do and at the appropriate time, but unremarkably, after a moment of relief and a deep sigh, his mother exploded, and she screamed in her son’s face.
“What gives you the right to decide on my daughter’s well-being without consulting me?”
“I did what was best under the circumstances. Considering the mess Caprica created and the danger she was in, easing your mind was the least of my worries.”
“Are you saying Caprica didn’t attempt suicide?”
“Exactly that. The people my sister paid to harass and possibly murder my girlfriend tried to stage her suicide.”
“Why?”
“Why do you think, mother? They were covering their tracks.”
Charlotte sat on a dining room chair with an ashtray full of half to fully-smoked stubs in front. I saw the wet ring stain of a tumbler nearby. It was roughly whisky size, and I knew she’d hit the bottle hard.
Cheap wood, too.
That won’t dry out.
I scanned the table and saw more stains with a few cigarette burns that pierced the veneer of a once very average table.
I stared at her and realized this scene was a real-world experience for my future career. A woman, both victim and instigator of her demise and that of others around her was half drunk, in a confused daze, angry and upset.
Light gray cigarette ash curved dangerously from the tip of her cigarette, burning bright red near the fresh tobacco. With one more puff, Charlotte would add another cigarette burn to her home.