Where The Mind Breaks

Chapter 6: A Trust Of Knives

The funeral was a farce dressed in black.

The little church in Everfell was packed, the air thick with the smell of damp wool and false sentiment. Nel sat in the back pew, Silvera a silent, observant presence beside him. He felt like a trespasser at his own execution. Every glance from a mourner felt like an accusation. Every whispered condolence sounded like a lie.

From the pulpit, Jason Demmys spoke. He wasn't in uniform, but a well-tailored black suit that screamed authority louder than a badge ever could.

"Golda Haines was a pillar of this community," he said, his voice a smooth, practiced baritone that carried easily through the hushed church. "A seeker of truth. It is a tragedy that in her final days, that very pursuit may have led her down a dark path... a path of confusion and despair."

Nel’s hands clenched into fists on his knees. Confusion and despair. Jason was laying the final bricks in the wall of his narrative, sealing Golda’s coffin with the mortar of lies. He was painting her as unstable, validating the suicide story for everyone in town.

"He's good," Silvera murmured, so low only Nel could hear.

"He's a Demmys," Nel replied, the words tasting like poison.

As the service ended and the crowd began to file out for the graveside burial, a large, heavy hand fell on Nel's shoulder. He flinched.

"Nel Tait," a voice rumbled. It was Hedge Demmys. The old man stood there, leaning on a polished cane of dark wood. His face was a roadmap of wrinkles, but his eyes were the same cold, still water as the lake. "Haven't seen you since you were a boy. Sorry it's on a day like this."

The grip on Nel's shoulder was firm, possessive. It was the grip of a man who owned things, including, it seemed, the people in his town.

"Mr. Demmys," Nel managed, his throat tight.

"Golda was a troubled soul," Hedge said, his gaze drifting over to where Jason was shaking hands with mourners. "Always digging where she shouldn't. Stirring up mud. Mud can hide sharp things, son. A man can cut himself." His eyes slid back to Nel, pinning him in place. "Or get cut. You're just here to say goodbye, I hope?"

It wasn't a question. It was a warning, wrapped in the bland courtesy of a condolence.

Before Nel could form a reply, Hedge gave his shoulder a final, almost painful squeeze and moved on, a king greeting his subjects.

"He knows you're looking," Silvera said as they stepped out into the dreary afternoon.

"Of course he knows," Nel whispered, his heart still hammering. "Jason probably told him the second I hit the town limits."

They followed the somber procession to the cemetery...the same cemetery he had fled hours before. The rain had softened to a fine mist, coating everything in a cold, clinging dampness. As the priest spoke the final words over Golda's casket, Nel's eyes were not on the grave. They were on the faces in the crowd.

He saw Dr. Sam, his expression appropriately grave. He saw the current mayor, a man who had taken Hedge's money according to the ledger. He saw a dozen other faces, all of them bound to the Demmys by secrets and silence. They were all here, a congregation of the complicit, gathered to bury the one person who had tried to expose them.

It felt like they were mocking her. Mocking him.

As the crowd began to disperse, Jason broke away from a group and walked straight towards them. His face was a mask of somber sympathy.

"Nel," he said, ignoring Silvera completely. "I'm glad you came. I know it's hard." He put a hand on Nel's arm, a gesture meant to look supportive. "Listen, I was thinking. Why don't you come by the house later? For a drink. Just like old times. We can talk about Golda. About Vivi. Maybe it would help you... find some closure."

The invitation was so blatant, so arrogant, it took Nel's breath away. Jason was inviting him into the lion's den. To "talk." To be measured, threatened, and neutralized, all under the guise of friendship.

Nel looked at Jason's hand on his arm, then up into his eyes...the eyes of the boy he'd once fought and then befriended. He saw no friendship there now. He saw the cold calculation of a sheriff protecting his kingdom.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Jason," Nel said, his voice quieter than he intended.

Jason's smile was thin, dangerous. "I insist. It's not a request. Seven o'clock. Don't be late." He gave Nel's arm a pat and walked away, rejoining his father.

Nel stood frozen, a cold dread seeping into his bones. He had just been summoned.

"He's not even trying to be subtle," Silvera said, her voice tight.

"He doesn't have to be," Nel replied. He felt like a mouse being played with by a very patient, very powerful cat. Going to the Demmys house was a trap. Refusing was an admission of guilt, and would likely provoke a more direct and violent response.

They walked back towards the inn in silence, the weight of the impending meeting pressing down on them.

Back in his room, Nel stared at his duffel bag. At the shape of the revolver inside.

"What are you going to do?" Silvera asked from the doorway.

"What choice do I have?" He ran a hand through his hair, his panic a live wire under his skin. "I can't go in there unarmed."

"Taking a gun into Sheriff Demmys's house is suicide," she stated flatly. "That's what he wants. A reason."

"Then what? What do I do? Just walk in there and let him... what? Ask me politely to leave town before he has me killed?"

"No," Silvera said, her eyes narrowing in thought. "You go. You listen. You play the sad, grieving old friend who's just here for the funeral. You let him think he's won. You give him nothing." She stepped closer. "But you don't go unarmed. Just not with that." She pointed to the duffel bag.

She reached into the pocket of her own coat and pulled out a small, sleek device. A digital voice recorder.

"Golda's," she said, pressing it into his hand. "It's always better to have a record. A witness he doesn't know about."

Nel looked down at the recorder, a tiny, cold piece of plastic that felt heavier than the revolver. It wasn't a weapon of violence, but of truth. It was a different kind of knife.

"Record everything," Silvera instructed. "Keep it in your breast pocket. If he tries anything, if he says anything, we'll have it."

It was a thin shield. If Jason found it, it would be all the reason he needed. But it was something. It was a way to fight back without throwing a punch he knew he'd lose.

At ten to seven, standing on the porch of the imposing Demmys house overlooking the lake, Nel felt the recorder like a brand against his chest. He took a deep, shaky breath, the air cold and wet.

This wasn't a social call. It was a negotiation with a predator.

He raised his hand and knocked on the door.

The door swung open, not by a servant, but by Jason himself. He'd changed into a crisp, casual shirt, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He smiled.

"Nel. Right on time. Come on in."

He stepped aside, and Nel walked into the belly of the beast. The door clicked shut behind him, the sound as final as a coffin lid sealing.