Repose

Who: Eddie and Bruce
When: Recently
Where: Carnival grounds
What: surprise! bruce isn't dead

( They were his monsters, after all. )

[Phone Call: Emily G.]
[Before meeting Bruce. Ring, ring!]

Who: Eddie and Leah
What: Death touch. It's a thing.
When: Maybe day after ~introductions.
Warnings: Nada

The graveyard was exactly where she'd left it.

Leah thought of the town like a little girl might think of a long forgotten jewellery box, left behind in a closet in a house she'd outgrown. It had some things, buried deep within the lining that were worth memory and might, if it was simply a matter of moments or steps between door and closet, be worth going back for. But the rest of the clutter in the bottom of the box wasn't worth it and some of what was buried underneath that little girl preferred to leave locked and behind several sets of closed doors. Repose was very good at keeping secrets locked where they should be, by virtue of its isolation from anything resembling a metropolis within an hour's limit. But it was very bad, as Leah had learned as soon as she'd been old enough to put words and whispers together, at holding onto secrets within its streets.

She wasn't going back to the diner on Main, even if it had changed ownership. The blue paint and flowers out front was a gaudy memory of being stood at her mother's side, small (dirty) hand in hers and watching her mother's face slide from patience to bewilderment as the staff deliberately ignored her waiting for a table-top amid the whispers and faint, only half-hidden laughter of people let out after church. She skirted the church itself: it had faint glimmers of painted gilt in a memory. The music had been worth it. The coffee klatch afterward, not so much.

But no one in Repose, as far as Leah remembered, bothered with the graves. Beside the groundskeepers of the small cemetery. It wasn't reason enough to come to the plot bristling with headstones like lopsided, greying teeth in a gaping mouth on its own. She wasn't that far gone, even if her skin prickled as she walked down the center of town, certain it was too easy to peel off a little laquered polish acquired in ten years and find nothing but a Reed underneath.

No, she was looking for names on the stones. One, in particular. In the gloam of the evening slipping cleanly into night, she was a slim neat figure in good-quality clothes and shoes that didn't exactly go: they were neither high-heeled, nor fashionable but had the virtue of being soft-soled and quiet. She wore a jacket, and the fingertips that slid over stone after stone, were neatly gloved. Kid-leather, expensive and thin enough that no doubt whatever the gloved fingers ran over, it could be felt beneath, but a clear and discernible boundary between the wearer and the object.

She circled the plot at least twice, and in the absence of finding what she was clearly looking for, returned to a crop of stones that looked functional rather than expensive, and slid to her knees in front of the first and newest.

[An envelope addressed to Harper and Ceil, one name on top, the other on the bottom. Inside, a money order for $250.

Also a second package. No specific addressee.]

[Locked to Sasha J]

So, about that guy with the arm.

[After receiving a couple packages.]

[Group lock]
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