The words “who dunnit?” raced around my mind while I looked around the room. Flavius was sitting at what became the head of the table by virtue of his presence. Allison Rollins, his supposed lover, was to his right, her hair so startlingly straight I was shocked it moved at all. The seat on her other side and the two by Flavius’ were empty to highlight the fact three members of parliament were now gone. Sergei was definitely dead, then. Despite the horror movie phone call, I still held hope he may be okay. A naïve part of me said he could still be alive somewhere dying a slow, painful death in some dark corner – which spoke volumes about how fucked up I was. A few dozen people were sitting around the perimeter of the room, forming an audience around our table. I guess sitting with the big boys meant I was actually important, but it was hard to feel good about that when it felt like the word “MURDERER” was painted on my forehead. Once everyone had gathered, Flavius stood up and hung his head in what I’m sure someone would believe was sadness.
