10:47 p.m.
Woodbury, New York
In stocking feet and wearing knee-length shorts and a New York Giants t-shirt, Derek shuffled into the living room, music player in one hand, a chocolate chip cookie in the other. After selecting a new song, he bent over the back of the couch and kissed his mother’s cheek. “Night Mom.”
She reached up and patted his arm. “Good night dear.”
He crossed the room and slapped hands with his father, the two males eyeing each other, but never saying a word. Taking the steps two at a time, Derek was upstairs, and in his room, in seconds.
Ten minutes later, Margaret closed the magazine she was reading, set the periodical on the coffee table, stood and stretched. “I think,” she yawned, “I’m heading up to bed too, dear.” She came up behind her husband—sitting on the other couch—wrapped arms around his neck and took turns kissing and nibbling his ear.
Tingles ran down Oscar Wyman’s spine, while he swayed to one side.
Her lips followed his motion. “You’re not getting away from me that easy, Mr. Wyman.”
He cupped the back of her hair and spun his head to kiss her. “Who says…” he kissed her again, “I’m trying to get away from you?”
Margaret slithered over the back of the couch and landed on her man. The couple enjoyed each other for a minute before she pushed off and went to her feet. “Don’t stay up too long.” She caressed his cheek, as she walked away, her finger slowly moving from his chin, to his arm, to his palm. “Or I might not be,” her eyebrows danced, “awake when you come upstairs.”
Oscar gave her a half grin, while the woman ogled him over her one shoulder and started up the stairs. He held up his novel. “I just need a few more minutes. I’m almost done with this chapter.”
She disappeared behind the wall to the right of the staircase.
He waited for her to appear on the upstairs walkway. She had turned her head and was eyeing him over her opposite shoulder, dragging a finger along the handrail. He smiled at her. She’s as sexy as the day I married her. When she got to the end of the bannister and vanished behind another wall, he crossed his legs and went back to reading.
… … … … …
10:59 p.m.
The grandfather clock above the fireplace played a tune. Feeling a sharp pain, Oscar clutched his chest. The burning sensation radiated down his left arm. Oh my God. I’m having a—he glanced down at his book; pages two-fifty-one and two-fifty-two were sprinkled with tiny red dots. His eyes dropped further. His white dress shirt had a growing red circle, centered over the pocket. The antique timepiece behind him rang once.
Letting go of the book, Oscar pushed himself to his feet, staggered and hunched over the coffee table. The clock sounded again. He tipped his head back and his eyes grew wide. “Who,” he fumbled with the items on the table, “…who are you?” He found what he was searching for a second ahead of hearing a muffled pop, interspersed between a third and fourth chime. More pain filled his body, while his thumb pressed a red button—his last act on this earth—before he collapsed between the couch and the coffee table. His eyelids were shut, but his ears heard the final seven dings of his father’s beloved grandfather clock.
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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