The freezing rains dance off the hissing metal as they drive through the gaping hole in the manor. The last of the flames gutter out in the deluge, as the man stands amidst the twisted fingers of warped rebar where the explosion tore apart the study on the upper floor.
This is where the thieves made their escape. They must have had a boat waiting for them at the bottom of the storm slickened cliffs, bobbing on the dark iron of the roiling sea. They made off with the family fortune.
But that isn't why he's standing here, in the frigid torrents, gazing at the black on black horizon with an accusatory gaze.
He holds what remains of his father's pendant in his hands. The chain has burned an ugly scar into his palms and wrists that winds with a serpentine suggestion where he gripped the hot chain.
His father's charred remains are scattered across the wet rocks below. Did the old fool try to stop the them? Or was he simply in the wrong place at the wrong time?
No matter. His course is set. No man may draw blood and hope to live.
He casts the pendant into the storm, where it is swallowed into the sea along with any forgiveness the man had left within him.
Paddy Dobson
7th August 2022