The person outside was David Clintwood. He was the son of Larry Clintwood, whom he had known since I had come to Anderson Island. I had seen David since he was seven. But now the kid had grown up to be thirty seven.

"Ah, Dave!" I was quiet amused to see him, "Had been quiet a long time since I had seen you last time."

Clintwood looked at his legs and asked, "Where are your crutches?"

"Medicines worked for me." I lied. But it didn’t matter because no one was going to know what had happened. On the other hand, who was going to notice someone's crutches when whole place had gone through massive bloodshed?

"Can I come in, Mr. Tarot?" he asked after a long stare. Clintwood had son of ten. Perhaps he had lost him. Kids below eleven had died all, as I had heard.

"Yes, yes. Apologies for my rudeness. I forgot to welcome you in. Please." I welcomed him in and asked him to take a seat.

Clintwood collapsed on the settee with palm wrapped around his face. I felt awkward. It would be silly to ask what had happened. And it would be rude not to do something for him. But staying silent was nothing more than best way to increase awkwardness.

"My son," Clintwood sobbed.

"I am sorry to hear it." I didn’t know if he should be saying it or not.

Clintwood removed his hands and looked up at me with red face and wet bloodshot eyes.

"Calm down son, let me bring some drinks for you." I said and then walked towards the kitchen as fast as I could. It was what I could do for sure. I knew I still had some leftover drinks in the refrigerator.

I opened the fridge and caught two bottles of beer. Any drink was going to do job for a mourning father.

I closed fridge and walked out with drinks clutched in one hand and glasses in the other. Then I closed kitchen door by foot since I had no longer trouble in using them.

There I saw Clintwood still sitting on the couch but this time he held a paper in his hand. He looked to be reading it for some reason.

I came near to him and put the drinks on the table. Then began to fill the glasses from drink.

"I am not here to drink." Clintwood stopped me, "I can do this anytime. I will do it all the time from now."

"House of mine ain't a bad place to start your agenda." I said and filled the second glass.

Suddenly Clintwood overturned the table and I almost fell. I was stumbling when the strong man swung a sickle down at me. I somehow got up and escaped again from the second swing of my own sickle – which he had hung in the lobby for many years.

"What are you doing?" I screamed.

"I am going to kill you, can't you understand you fucking hag?" he grinned.