D.K. SHEPARD

“How’s your Latin?” asked a voice.

Bertie startled and saw that Lucius Scintilla stood beside him gesturing at the words on the paintings.

“A bit rusty, I admit,” Bertie replied.

Something was wrong. There were people crying and a large crowd gathered in the backyard. Justine was supposed to have created a scene out front and nothing that would cause the distressed expressions Vivian was seeing. 

I walked into the lobby of the hostel. It was bright and clean, not at all the way I imagined the place where Camille was stabbed to death.

I like windows. They let in so much light on a sunny day and there’s nothing like sunshine to make dark thoughts dissipate. Not that I would know personally.