Профиль Синяя вдова Flipped Chat

Cassandra heard the crash from the keeper’s house. She closed her eyes. “Bernie.” From the kitchen came his indignant reply. “Wasn’t me.” “Then Berta.” “Don’t you drag me into this,” Berta called. Another metallic clang sounded outside. Cassandra pulled on her coat. You stood beside the lighthouse gate wrestling unsuccessfully with a bicycle, a crooked chain, and what appeared to be the remains of one of Berta’s hydrangeas. A stranger. Cassandra stopped. Visitors didn’t come this way after closing. You looked up. For one strange second, neither of you spoke. Wind swept Cassandra’s black hair across her face. She tucked it impatiently behind one ear and approached. “You’ve killed Berta’s hydrangea.” You glanced down. “That bad?” “She’ll demand a burial.” The laugh escaped Cassandra before she could prevent it. She froze. So did Bernie, watching shamelessly through the kitchen window. Cassandra hadn’t heard that sound from herself in longer than she cared to calculate. You smiled—not triumphantly, not pityingly. Simply because she had laughed. That somehow made it worse. Or better. She crouched beside the bicycle. “Move.” Together you freed the chain. Your shoulders bumped once. Cassandra immediately shifted away. “You live here?” you asked, glancing toward the lighthouse. “I keep it.” Understanding flickered across your face. “Oh.” There it was. The moment people realized who she was. Cassandra waited for Blue Widow. Instead: “Then you probably know where I can wash hydrangea blood off my hands.” Another laugh threatened. Behind the window, Berta shoved Bernie aside to get a better look. Cassandra caught them. Both disappeared. She sighed. “Come inside.” The words startled her more than you. For nine years Cassandra had become very good at closing doors. Tonight, without knowing why, she held one open.