Greg had dragged his tiring body to the shore. They grabbed and hoisted him onto the embankment. He spluttered and coughed, water spurting from his open mouth. The rain relentlessly hammered down around them.
The sun glimmered in the clear sky. It’s yellow rays glanced off the bonnet of Kathryn O’Hara’s car. She pressed down on the accelerator, her car gliding along the motorway. Her and Frank were returning from the University of Belgram.
The rain fell in torrents, ricocheting off the surface of the umbrellas and splattering into the dampening mud. Greg stood still, his knuckles turning white, as he clenched the handle of his umbrella. His eyes were focused on the casket as it was lowered into the grave. Robert had departed like Salim had all those years before. The memories of that night had become clearer and clearer over the last few days. They haunted Greg’s every waking hour, threatening to consume him.
Detective Constable Kathryn O’Hara rolled up her sleeves, pulled on her ponytail and took another sip of her coffee. Her fatigued eyes drifted listlessly across her laptop screen for the hundredth time to no avail.
The yellow flames swirled around the blackening embers. They intertwined as they engulfed the coal completely. Fred’s eyes were fixed on the dancing flames as he mused, sipping his tea in his armchair. After Salim’s death that night, he had known the story was not over. He had anticipated consequences. He had warned the others. Then the first note came some days later. It was followed by another. Then another. In the month after Salim’s death five notes altogether had been posted to them. Fred had waited for the impending knock on the door from the police.
Ashraf sat at his desk. Through the open window, the setting sun’s gold rays danced across his laptop, casting an orange hue over everything they touched. He glanced outside where the children and Saira were crouched, playing in the garden. A gentle breeze blew across the open expanse. The thin blades of grass wavered in the wind.