The Gift of Illusion

Chapter Thirteen





1





7:48 p.m.

A knock at the door.

Isaac turned his head from the television, glanced over at the front door, and then looked down at his watch. Here we go, he thought, either Simmons or the woman.

Her name was...?

Did she even tell him?

Of course she did, he had just withdrawn it from his memory, perhaps deliberately, believing at the time that the woman who just wanted to help (as she put it), really wanted to make a fool of him. Although while the hours passed since their conversation (hours filled with much thought and little talk), that initial belief, as easy as it was to grasp, slowly began to fade away.

Over his many years of service, Isaac had become rather proficient at spotting a liar, some more obvious than others. Whether it was the man in the corner alley trying to convince him the bag of cocaine was laundry detergent, or the tearful, sympathetic father who would never do anything to hurt his child, the eyes almost always told the biggest tale of guilt. In this case, however, there were no eyes to leak a luminous trail, only a voice, at least so far anyway. Therefore, if the woman was telling the truth, and really did know something, it would be obvious simply by her arrival, and if she was lying, which he feared but did not expect, God only knows why he invited Simmons.

Isaac turned the television off and headed to the front door. He glared through the peephole hoping to see a woman he had never seen before, but instead, saw Simmons. He opened the door and invited Simmons in.

“My guess is that she's not here yet,” said Simmons.

“She was here. She ran away when she saw you pull in.”

“Sure she did,” said Simmons. He was beginning to get used to the wisecracks. In a weird way, they made him feel special, like Isaac had accepted him. “I didn't see another car out front. Where’s Amy?”

“In her room,” said Isaac, sauntering into the kitchen. “Reading, I think. You want something to drink?”

“Sure, what you got?”

“Um,” Isaac mumbled, searching the contents of the fridge. “Soda, water.” He paused, waiting for Simmons to cut him off or for something else to catch his eye. Nothing did.

“Water, I guess.”

“I guess,” Isaac whispered. He doesn’t sound too pleased. Isaac was about to pour the glass of water, when he saw a small jar of coffee pushed behind the coffee maker. “Would you rather have coffee?”

“Is it decaf?”

Isaac forgot that Simmons had not been a detective long. “Are you kidding?”

“Coffee is fine,” Simmons said. “Sounds good.”

Isaac set the coffee maker and headed back into the living room.

“So, tell me more about this someone.”

“There’s not much to tell,” said Isaac, sitting down.

“You said it was a woman.”

“Sounded like a woman on the phone.”

“What’s her name?”

“I can’t remember.”

“But she said she could tell us what’s causing the bodies to burn.”

“From what I gather.”

“How would she know?”

“Don't know. Ask her when she gets here.”

“She couldn't just tell you over the phone?”

“We didn't have much time,” Isaac replied. “She just said she would rather meet in person. Besides, I like it better this way. I don’t trust people who are only willing to talk on the phone. It’s a lot easier to tell if someone is full of shit when you’re close enough to smell ‘em.”

The coffee maker buzzed just seconds before the doorbell rang.

Isaac looked through the peephole again, this time seeing what he was hoping for. The woman didn't look anything like what he had expected. Sometimes a voice can be deceiving. Sometimes the women with the sexiest voices can be the most repulsive to look at, but this woman was by far an exception. She was tall, curvaceous, and had dark shoulder length hair that cradled the sides of her face. Yet, just as a voice can be deceiving, so can a peephole. He opened the door and saw that his initial observations were correct. She was wearing faded blue jeans and a black tank top, not the sexiest clothing in the world, but she wore it well. She could have shown up in sweatpants and her grandma’s wool sweater and would still be the best looking woman in the neighborhood.

“You must be?”

“Virginia Maples,” she said, smiling. “Are you Detective Winters?”

“Just call me Isaac.”

“Okay.”

Isaac stepped out of the doorway. “Please, come in.” She hesitated for a moment then walked inside. Simmons got up from the couch and walked over. “This is Detective Simmons.”

Simmons shook her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“You, too.”

“Have a seat,” Isaac said, leading her into the living room. “Would you like some pot, I just made a coffee. Shit, excuse me. I mean I just made a pot of coffee.”

“Sure,” Virginia said, laughing as she sat down on the couch.

Simmons sat down in the recliner. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.”

“Virginia Maples.”

“Oh, so then you're the author of the book?” The Immortal lay on the coffee table between them. "Isaac never mentioned that."

“Yeah, I'm a writer. Mostly poetry."

Isaac shut off the kitchen light and headed back into the living room carrying three multicolored mugs. After he sorted out the coffee, he sat down on the couch next to Virginia. “I hope you don’t mind if I sit next to you.”

Virginia smiled. “Not at all.”

"Why didn't you tell me she authored the book?"

Isaac looked down at the little black book in front of him, the authors name in white boldfaced letters. "I guess I'm guilty of not paying very close attention. I didn't get much sleep last night so forgive me if I may seem a bit delirious."

"I understand," Virginia said. "I noticed the taped up window over there. How is your daughter doing?"

"She'll survive. She's more worried about me."

"Why is she worried about you?" Simmons asked.

"Something the deputy said to her last night."

Simmons and Virginia both waited anxiously for Isaac to spill the beans, when he didn't look like he would, Simmons did what Simmons does best. "What did he say?"

"Why thank you for asking. He basically just warned me to stop following him or else. Like that's gonna happen. If anything, his threats inspire me."

"Well, though I understand your motivation," Virginia said. "Perhaps you should stop following him."

Both Isaac and Simmons said: "What?"

"I don't mean to insult you. Quite the opposite. But it sounds to me like this case has become personal for you. You've had your house vandalized. You're daughter is at risk. You're being threatened. I think if these things were happening to me I would be hiding out somewhere."

"Obviously there is personal risk. I know this better than most, believe me. I try not to think about it. Instead I focus on how many other people's lives could be affected if I don't do something. I feel a responsibility that goes over and beyond my own personal safety."

"Again, I hope I didn't offend you. I admire your passion, and your confidence. If I'm right about what we are up against, then were going to need that kind of no quit attitude to get through this."

"I don't need you to test me, if that's what you're doing. I've been tested."

"Actually, I find it refreshing to know that you genuinely care about the outcome, and you're not just running through the motions. It makes what I have to say even more necessary, as I know now that it's not falling on deaf ears."

"Were glad you're here." Simmons chimed in. "We've come to a bit of a standstill. Any help you can give at this point is better than nothing."

“So, where do we start?" Isaac asked. "On the phone you said you could tell me what’s causing these bodies to burn.”

“Right. Where to begin. On the news this morning I saw a sketch of a statue, and from what I understand this statue was stolen from your house.”

“Last night.”

Virginia picked up The Immortal from the coffee table and flipped to page eighty-nine, close to the end. She held the book in front of Isaac and pointed to the picture at the bottom of the page. “Is this the statue? Look at the top of the tombstone.”

Isaac stared down at the black and white picture. “Oh, wow,” he said. “Yeah, that’s it.” He handed the book over to Simmons. “Check it out.”

“How did you come across the statue?”

“I found it on James Ackerman after he burned up in the accident. I figured it must have had some personal relevance for him to carry it around, but not much to the case in general. And I had no idea that it was part of a tombstone, although I guess that explains the broken feet. When was that picture taken?”

“Nineteen fifty two,” Virginia said. “When I was seventeen my great grandmother died, and I found that picture, along with a few other ones, stuffed in one of the drawers at her old house. I also found a bunch of old documents she had compiled, much of which I used in writing the book. I think many were handed down to her. But it was the pictures that instantly fascinated me, especially the picture of the mansion.”

“What mansion?” Simmons asked, flipping through the book.

“I’m not sure what page it’s on, but it’s in there. At first I didn’t know that the two pictures were related, but I began to dig around and finally realized that the mansion had belonged to a man named Lucius. That’s his grave in the picture, and the statue is a statue of him.”

“So, what’s the connection?”

“Where did you find the first body?” Virginia asked.

Simmons groaned, cleared his throat. “Maria Avenue.”

Isaac nodded. “Yeah, the little girl.”

“Do you think she could have come across the statue?”

“Certainly,” said Isaac. “Hold on for a second.” He hurried out into the garage, opened the door to the Charger, and grabbed the manila folder from the back seat. He returned to the living room, removed the photos from the folder, and handed them to Virginia. “See, up in the left corner on top of the dresser.”

“When were these photos taken?”

“Shortly after the police and fire department arrived at the house. Early Tuesday morning, though I didn’t see the photos until after sunrise, and by the time we got to the house, the statue was gone. The next morning we found it with Mr. Ackerman.”

“Okay, then I was right,” said Virginia. “Did you notice the small park on the corner of Maria and Fairway?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I’d be willing to bet that is where the little girl found the statue.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I thought you said the statue came from a tombstone,” said Simmons.

“The park on the corner of Maria was once a graveyard.”

“They built a park on top of a graveyard?” asked Simmons.

Virginia nodded.

Isaac grabbed the book again and looked closer at the statue and the barren street in the background. “That’s Fairway?”

“Yeah, it’s changed a lot in sixty years.”

“I guess it has,” said Isaac. “When was the park built?”

“I’m not exactly sure. Sometime in the early sixties, I think.”

“Do you know why?” asked Simmons.

“Supposedly the graveyard was in shambles. There were weeds as high as the tombstones, those that still stood that is, and I guess nobody wanted to keep up the maintenance. Plus, by the sixties the area began to fill with homes and businesses, and the old graveyard seemed like a bad marketing tool to grab the interest of investors.”

“What about the descendants?”

“There were none,” Virginia said. “At least none that made themselves known. You see, there were only four graves, and all four of them belonged to the same family, with the oldest grave belonging to Lucius. Oddly enough, the other family members all died at the hands of a fire, much like these recently. At the time, many people believed it had something to do with spontaneous human combustion, but I think we know better now.”

“So you're saying this Lucius character is responsible somehow?”

“Are you a spiritual man?”

“I could be,” Isaac answered. “I guess it depends on what you say.”

Virginia took a deep breath. “When he was alive, Lucius practiced the art of illusion.”

“He was a magician?” asked Simmons.

“No, an illusionist,” Virginia corrected. “Lucius went beyond simple tricks of the hand. He used to draw large crowds to his mansion where he would perform on stage, just like many popular performers of today. But what few people knew was that Lucius had many dark cells in a chamber below his mansion full of prisoners. These people were innocent, with no reason to be locked up other than to become a part of the performance.”

“This is the Mansion at the end of Maria?” asked Isaac.

“Yes. You've heard of it."

“I've actually seen it from a helicopter once, but that's the closest I've been. It's buried out there in the woods. Have you been inside?”

“No. At one time I thought I had enough courage, this was around the time I started gathering information for the book, but I quickly found my fear at the doorstep and ran off. Today I know too much about the place to even consider going inside. I probably wouldn’t even reach the doorstep.”

“What century was this place built?”

“The latter part of the nineteenth century. Lucius was born in 1846 and died in 1898.”

“How did he die?” asked Simmons.

“I was just about to get to that. Apparently his reason for torturing these innocent people was to test the mortality of man. He wanted to discover the depth of each individual’s breaking point, the point in which they would gladly give up life and invite death. So by the time he killed these people they were more than ready to die, and he thought he was doing them a favor.”

“Sounds like he carried each one of his marbles in a separate sack,” Isaac remarked.

“Lucius believed he was immortal, hence the name of the book, though by his own making he found that not to be true. During one of his shows, actually his last show, he put his immortality to the test. That night he used one of his favorite elements. Fire. And it turned against him."





2





At a quarter past seven, a red Ford pickup rattled down Hampton Lane. Randy sat behind the wheel eager to get home and see his fiancé. It had been a long and tiring day, and Lizzy’s sweet smile was just the medicine he needed. His first week as a used car salesman was almost over, with only one day left, and other than yesterday’s unfortunate setback, the sale went over without a hitch. More than two dozen cars left the small lot with his signature on the release form, not too bad for a guy used to working with his hands and not with his mouth, though it would definitely take some time to get accustomed to the new dress code.

Randy was a new man now, a man he could hardly recognize, a man with a steady job and a future to look forward to, a man with hopes, dreams, and a soon to be wife that would do anything for him. That is what the new job was about, something he had to remind himself throughout the week. This was a chance for the first time in his life to do things right, and make up for all of the past mistakes.

The brakes squealed as Randy slowed down to pull into the driveway. He parked the red truck next to Lizzy’s sedan and clicked off the ignition. As he got out of the truck, he noticed that all of the lights were off in the house except for the bedroom light. She must be reading, he thought. Almost every night around seven, Lizzy would retire to the bedroom to read for a couple of hours without the disturbance of Randy’s nightly sports routine. Sometime between nine and ten (when the third quarter came to an end), Randy would go in and check on her, most nights finding her asleep with a book across her chest. But since there was no game on TV tonight, perhaps they could spend the time together.

The minute Randy stepped through the front door a very sweet but putrid aroma grabbed his attention. His face puckered up like an infants. The scent was almost intoxicating.

“What in the f*ck is that?” he said, walking into the dark kitchen. He scanned the kitchen counter, along with the refrigerator and oven, but found no reasonable source for the stench. Then he left the kitchen and stood for a minute in the corner between the living room and the hallway.

He called his fiancé’s name but she didn’t answer. He looked up at the air vents above his head. It could just be the heater, he thought. If the dust in the ventilation ducts reached a certain temperature, it could cause a strange smell to circulate through the house. It has happened before, although never to such a severe extent.

He called for his fiancé again, louder this time, but still heard no response. He looked down the hall and saw a dim light glimmering from underneath the bedroom door. Could she have fallen asleep already? He headed down the hallway and stopped in front of the door, listening for any sound (presumably the television or radio) that could have blocked his voice. At first, he didn’t hear anything, just the panting of his breath, and then his fiancé spoke.

“Come in,” she said, her voice soft but demanding.

Randy slowly turned the handle and opened the bedroom door. To his surprise, Lizzy lay on her back in the middle of the bed wearing nothing but a pair of black silk panties. The light that Randy had thought was from the touch lamp was actually from a dozen candles uniformly placed around the room. As he looked his fiancé over, from the sleek heels of her feet, down her long sloping legs, up the smooth crotch of her black panties, and further up to the light pink of her nipples, a big smile came across her face.

A stunned Randy asked: “What are you doing?”

“What do you want me to do?”

“How come you didn’t answer me?”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

Randy sighed. “Well, I’m definitely surprised. What is that smell?”

“What smell?”

“That awful smell,” Randy said. “Are you telling me you can’t smell that? What did ya burn something?”

“Yeah, actually, I did.”

“What the hell did you burn?”

“You’ll see,” Lizzy said. “Now why don’t you come here? I’ve got something for you.”

Randy walked around the bed and watched his fiancé pull two of his bandannas, one black and one white, from the drawer of the nightstand. “What do you want me to do with those?”

It took him a second to realize her implications, afterward, he felt like an idiot for asking the question. He also wanted to slap junior and get him moving, but maybe she could take care of that, take care of him. Shape up and let's get a move on soldier, we haven’t got all night. But, oh, that smell. It’s everywhere.

“You want me to tie you up?”

Lizzy sat up in bed, held her arms out, and gripped the corners of the headboard. Randy grabbed the bandannas and proceeded to secure his fiancé’s hands to the headboard. When they were nice and tight, he began to unbuckle his belt.

“Now why don’t you kiss me?”

Randy stopped dropping his drawers and leaned over Lizzy’s sleek white body. “What has gotten into you? I’ve never seen you like this before.”

“It’s the new me,” she said. “Do you like it?”

Randy nodded.

“Then kiss me.”

Randy leaned in closer to kiss his fiancé, his body brushing against hers. He could finally feel the little man coming out of hibernation; he had a head full of steam, like an old locomotive ready to ride the rails into the station, over and over again.

After the kiss, Randy quickly backed away as Lizzy began yanking at the bandannas, cursing at him to try and help her free her hands from the headboard.

“Why am I tied up? What did you do to me? Help!”

Randy Wilson (a new man in new skin, a man hardly recognizable anymore, a man with a new job, a future, a man with hopes and dreams and a soon to be wife that would do anything for him) just leaned against the rear wall and enjoyed the show. This was always his favorite part—watching them beg for life then surrender to death.





3





The woman, now properly identified as Virginia Maples, proved to be more helpful than Isaac could have imagined. She painted a clear picture of what they were up against, without excluding any of the horrific details. Due to Ms. Maples unique insight, the case had taken a frightening, though not an entirely unexpected turn, and for the first time in two days, Isaac felt confident that they were moving in the right direction. Now with the origin identified and the target pinpointed, there was only one question left. What do we do about this?

It was clear that this would not be your ordinary trial and convict, after all, this was not your ordinary serial killer. There was no need for a hearing, a judge, or a jury; the verdict was already in, and the sentence irreversible. Isaac had worked dozens upon dozens of investigations, and seen many strange things, but this one by far was the strangest, and the scariest. This villain, this evil, posed the biggest threat imaginable, with little or nothing to lose and everything to gain.

It was almost ten o’clock before Isaac remembered to call Randy, although with the information he now had, it seemed pointless. He was already twenty-eight pages into The Immortal and did not want to put it down.

The phone rang five times before the answering machine clicked on. “Hey man, it’s Isaac. Are you there?” He waited for a second but no one picked up. “Okay, I guess you’re not there. I’ll try and get a hold of you tomorrow. Bye.”

He sat back down at his reading post and removed the folded dollar bill from the black book. Then he began reading from where he had left off.





From The Immortal (pg. 28)





Between 1870 and 1885, Lucius was on the road routinely performing shows all across the southeast, and although many of these shows would draw uncommonly large crowds, he hadn’t enough money to eat, not to mention that most of the money generated per show went to making the next show that much better. Being on the road all the time also provided Lucius no steady place of residence, forcing him to occasionally spend nights with many of his faithful followers.

Many critics (and he had many) labeled Lucius as nothing more than a ruthless beggar, seeking only to use his growing popularity as a stepping-stone to self-charity. Yet, Lucius took great advantage of these stays to get to know his audience on a more personal level and dissect each of their fears one by one. Critics also quickly dismissed him as being an untalented hack, believing his performance was nothing more than a well-orchestrated scheme, however, most did give him some credit for being a superb showman. Indeed, a superb showman he was, though far from untalented.

It was very common in that time (even in today’s world) for many so called ordinary people to hate something they could not understand, or find the words to explain, and Lucius was to even the most astute critic and fan, unexplainable.

Over the years, this mystery only served to increase the illusionist’s popularity by great numbers, and at around the age of thirty, he finally began to reap the rewards of his hard, unexplainable work. The crowds grew larger and larger, each performance greater and greater. Before long, the illusionist could charge any amount of money he desired, and the stakes would rise that much higher. It was around this time that Lucius decided to give the audience what he believed they wanted—to be a part of the magnificence.

The gift, as he referred to it, was at first distributed in small numbers. Only the most deserving fans got a taste of what the stage could offer. These people were handpicked from the crowd before the show and told nothing of what to expect, though most had followed Lucius from the beginning and knew exactly what to expect. Usually at the end of the show, Lucius would bring out these assistants and order them to perform various activities on the stage.

In one particular show, Lucius had all of the women take off their clothes and stand at the foot of the stage, while the men, equal in numbers, were given scalpels bathed in opiates and assigned a woman. The show was a sick form of theatrical art.

Once the stage was set, and the participants in place, the ceremony began. The men would brush the knife across the surface of the woman’s flesh, being careful not to cut too deep. There was no definitive pattern to follow or fashion to carve; the mind was open to create whatever it desired. After a moment, most of the women would dance in place, rubbing their hands across the serrated flesh. While their level of euphoria increased, the moans soon turned to cries. Then their hands, with the men’s, would begin to caress their genitalia, inside and out. By this time, if everything went well, the men would also be fully nude, fully erect, and no longer holding their paintbrushes.

This group of assistants would then merge as one in the center of the stage and share their deliverance with one another. The orgy could last for hours depending on the night, and the partakers. By the time the act reached the climax, many of the women would be dead, leaving the men to finish the act on a corpse.

Most of the crowd would leave the ceremony unable to comprehend what they had witnessed. Sometimes days would pass before anyone spoke a word of it, and even then, struggled trying to explain it. Once more, Lucius had done his job; they would be back next time, maybe even as a part of the show, with a few unsuspecting friends to share in the experience.





Isaac set the book down for a second and glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was a quarter to eleven. He grabbed the book, turned off the lamp, and headed upstairs to his bedroom. He tossed the book on the bed from the doorway then walked across the hall to Amy’s room. She was in bed watching television when her father opened the door.

“Are you going to let me go to school tomorrow or what?”

Isaac shut the door and sat down next to his daughter on the bed. “No,” he answered.

“Why not? I’m fine, Dad,” she said. “I don’t know what you’re worried about.”

“What do you think I'm worried about?”

“Oh please,” said Amy. “Nothing’s gonna happen. I'll be surrounded by people.”

“None of them me. You know most kids would be happy to get out of school.”

“Yeah, but unlike most kids, I happen to like school. I like being with my friends. Not cooped up in the house all day.”

“Why don’t you call them? I never said you couldn’t use the phone. But you’ll just have to wait till I get this case worked out first before you can run off on your own.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I know you don’t. But I’m doing this for your own safety.”

“Here we go again.”

“Look, you can cry and complain all you want, but you’re just wasting your time. I’m not going to change my mind.”

“I can’t believe this,” Amy pouted. “Why do I have to be punished for mom’s death?”

“Shut up. Okay. This has absolutely nothing to do with your mother.”

“What do you mean? I’m not stupid dad.”

“I never said you were stupid.”

“This has everything to do with mom and you know it." She watched her father bow his head and take a long breath. “I’m not a baby anymore. I’m sixteen years old. All I’m asking is that you trust me.”

“I do trust you,” Isaac said. He slowly lifted his head up and glanced over at his daughter.

“I don’t blame you, dad. I never have. I know in my heart that it wasn’t your fault. You’ve been the greatest dad any kid could ask for. I wouldn’t trade you for any mom in the entire world. When are you going to realize that?”

Isaac’s tough exterior had suddenly grown paper-thin. Amy could see inside him when he couldn’t even see inside himself.

“Let it go dad,” Amy cried. “Please, I’m begging you. Just let it go.”

Isaac pulled her close to him. “I’m trying sweetheart. God knows, I am.”

Isaac turned off the hallway light on the way to his bedroom. He shut the door and glanced down at the black book lying at the foot of the bed. He picked it up, opened the back flap, and looked down at the picture of Ms. Maples. Her beauty was truly breathtaking, and even though the picture was many years old, Isaac could see that age only ripened her beauty.

He set down the book and walked across the room to the bathroom. He stared at himself in the mirror for a minute, rubbing the scar on his chest, and then shaved his face. After he was done, he stripped down to his boxers. Then he grabbed the black book, sat up in bed, and removed the folded dollar bill.





From The Immortal (pg. 42)





Little is on record about Lucius’s birth parents. His mother and father were said to be of a modest upbringing, only caring for Lucius until the age of ten when they vanished one night never to be seen or heard from again, leaving their only child to face the growing world and all its great triumphs and troubles alone.

Early on, many of the townsfolk believed that Lucius’s parents had left the country in search of riches, and that they had no doubt run into trouble along the way, excusing their lack of return. Although much later (after Lucius had received notoriety from his critics), others came to believe that it was not the fear of raising Lucius that scared them away but the boy himself. Whatever the truth may be, this single event seemed to affect Lucius more than he would ever know, or ever come to admit, and he was never said to speak of them.

By the time Lucius turned forty, he had grown tired of the traveling circus and longed to find a way to bring the people to him, and being that he was now a rather wealthy man, all the extremities his mind could desire—to no extent, were easily within reach.

It was said that when he was a child, Lucius dreamed of a large sanctuary in the hills. Over the course of the next few years, years mainly spent persuading his followers for more and more donations, the childhood dream inched closer to reality.





Isaac stopped reading to gaze upon the photo of the mansion at the bottom of the page and continued at the top of the next.





Thus, in the winter of 1887, after a long tour of the southeastern states, Lucius finally made it back to his hometown of Elmwood. The illusionist was pleased with the progress of the estate. Every piece was falling into place, and much like a well-constructed illusion, no one expected a thing. The child in him had died long ago, as did the sentiment of the dream, all that remained was an older man tired of entertaining and ready to be entertained. This palace would be his final resting place, a place where his every impulse could be satisfied, every taste multiplied, and every sensation caressed. Lucius called himself immortal, and he believed it.

Just before the completion of the estate, Lucius put on a show outside of Planket, a small farming village 40 miles west of Elmwood. It was ideally a modest show considering his popularity. However, it was at this show where he met Maria Overa, the woman who would soon become his wife.

Maria was a country girl, growing up on the family farm. She was quite a bit younger than Lucius, but that didn’t sway her decision to leave the family and the farm and run away from the simple life, if anything it was a blessing. In his hands, she would be well taken care of. Lucius wasn’t like any other man she had ever met. He listened to her when no one else seemed to care. He didn’t argue, chastise, or suggest a solution, just listened. His heart was open to her and she dove in head first, with a chest unburdened.

Lucius offered safety, not with his mouth, but with his heart. He brought handfuls of change, more than she could carry, but his love for her was as clear on the horizon as a golden sunrise, lifting her fears away, and she would be by his side until death part them.