Part Two:
There's a lot I don't like about father's new wife, Katarina. The Autocloset Bitch, I call her. I mean, how can you trust anyone who has that much plastic surgery? How can you tell what their real face is?
We know almost nothing about her. Only that she swooped in on him at the funeral in that obscene scrap of a mourning dress, and that she loves spending dad's money. She had dad dialed in perfectly too. Those dark stormy eyes, golden-brown skin and undefinable exotic accent. A mature figure with gravity-defying breasts. It was like she was built for him .
Beneath her refined manners, there's something manish about her. It's like she learned how to be a woman from a book. Actually, no, mannish is an understatement. I'll just come out and say it. I'm pretty sure she's a man.
After moving into the manor, the first thing she spent dad's credit car on was a McLaren 570GT with spinning rims and subwoofer. The second thing was a blonde, big-breasted maid to do all the housework, whose seemingly only skill was having even bigger tits than her employer. Katarina couldn't tell a bra from a bustier, or anything else about women's clothing if the Autocloset wasn't dressing her each morning.
And there are those moments when she's kissing dad, her tongue lodged deep past his tonsils, and she locks eyes with me with that smug little smirk. That look of 'I win, bro." Like she just kicked my ass at Fortnite.
But most damning of all, what self-respecting 45-year-old woman knows what on fleek means.
It's a paranoid hunch but I have to be sure. While dad fucks her in the master bedroom, I let myself into his study. At least I can guarantee I'll be undisturbed as her faked screams of rapid-fire orgasm echo down the corridors. Well perhaps 'undisturbed' was a poor choice of words - I certainly cringe tinkling of the chandeliers as he plows her brutally against the headboard.
I pity whichever maid who has to clean up after that mess.
I find the invitation list for the funeral and compare it with the photograph of the service, ticking each person off one by one. Only one failed to attend. Lucian. My 19-year-old cousin. All the rest of his side of family were there of course - they've been after the family's fortune for years. A funeral is nothing but feeding time for those vultures.
So where was Lucian while Katarina was sinking her claws into my emotionally-vulnerable father...?
And hadn't it been my uncle who introduced them to each other...?
"Oh yeah. Oh yeah. Fuck me, Harold. I'm coming, Harold. I'm coming. Oh yeah. Fuck me. Fuck me in my tight pussy."
It can't be. Nauseous dread fills my stomach as her fake moans grow louder, the chandeliers tinkling to a crescendo along with a deep guttural groan. No. It's just a hunch, I tell myself. It has to be.
Hunch or no, she is no longer occupied, so to speak, and I don't want her to find me here. I stuff the papers back in the desk and hurry to leave.
The blonde housekeeper that Katarina hired is standing in the doorway, staring at me.
"Looking for something?" she asks sweetly.