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infant_savant in wetheinvincible

NY: 52nd and Park: Marylou and Aoife

Aoife has her share of chores. They have a cleaning service, but Marylou expects her to keep her room tidy, put her own clothes away, help with the washing up. Today, as Marylou is out, and the dry-cleaning has just been delivered - by a startled young man who didn't expect to have the clothes signed for by a six year old - she's putting Marylou's things away as well as her own.

She doesn't have much - kids clothes are usually designed to be machine-washable, after all, but Marylou had seemed insistant that she needed some 'nice' things - Aoife thinks the other things she has were nice enough, but she does have to admit that cashmere just feels nicer.

So, her stuff is away, and she's just hanging Marylou's silk shirts, when she comes across one that's familiar. She flips the cuff back before she goes to put it in the closet - and frowns at a faint brownish stain on the thread. There's nothing on the fabric - it must be a different fibre.

She can't think of many things taht would stain like that - and she remembers the last time that Marylou was wearing that shirt. but, having looked at the faint mark, brows knitted, for a moment, she hangs it in the closet, shuts the door, and takes the plastic bags to put with the recycling.

So, when Marylou comes home, she finds Aoife sitting on the sofa, laptop in - surprisingly - her lap, the tv tuned to Anime Network.

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She pops in, grinning as per usual as she puts her coat down.

"Hi, honey. Sorry I had to go out. There were some things to deal with at the bank, of course. Always have to watch on your money."
"That's okay."

She quite likes being left on her own, even if it's not for very long. She can. . . get on with things.

"I put the dry-cleaning away."
"Thank you, honey," another smile. "You really are so considerate. Think up anything you'd like for dinner?"
"It crumples if it's not hanging up," she points out, reasonably enough.

"And, um. Nothing in paticular?"

She has a slightly od expression, head tilted a little to the side. Wary, almost.
She notices, blinking with a tilt of her own head.

"Something the matter, sweetie?"
There are two options here, Aoife thinks. She can pretend she hasn't noticed anything, or she can confront marylou. The first may be safer. the second will get her answers. Plus, of course, however smart she may be, she's still six. Immediate gratification all the way, baby.

"What really happened in that garage?" Abruptly.
Blink.

"What do you mean?"
"Thye guy who. . . mugged you. there was blood on your sleeve. And you weren't hurt."

Aoife is still sitting, looking up at Marylou with solemn, unblinking eyes.
She smiles.

"Of course I was. Didn't you see the scuff on my cheek?"

She taps that very part of her face.

"And I told you. He ran away."
"I did," she says, "and. . . If you say so."

Aoife's face isn't exactly sullen - but she's no going to be convinced. And she doesn't like being lied to.
She can't stand the idea of Aoife unhappy. So she sighs, walks over, and sits down next to her.

"What do you think happened?"
Aoife looks at her for a moment.

"Not what you said happened."

She can tell.
"Well," and she's trying her hardest to keep her cool, even if it's not showing. "What do you think happened if it wasn't what I said?"
"I... don't know. Exacly. But i don't think he just left. And I don't think you're stupid enough to leave him to tell about . . whatever you did."

I think you killed him. And I think that was smart.
She sighs.

"All right. If I tell you something, will you promise not to tell anyone else?"
Los Angeles: The Beach

December 2006

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