You returned home carrying the picnic basket. Upon reaching the door, you retrieved the key from your cargo pants pocket but hesitated, putting it back instead of inserting it into the keyhole.
You glanced at your right hand, opened your palm, and intensely studied it. Seeking answers, you placed your hand on the wooden door. Suddenly, an unseen force pushed you away after noticing electricity coursing through the door's wooden veins.
You gently pushed the door, revealing the truth. Pompadour's claim proved true: your palm could indeed open doors. Coincidentally, Pompadour was currently featured on television.
Beneath the alias Pompadour lay Colmtalc Erowhon, a cunning thief with a penchant for targeting the ill-gotten wealth of corrupt politicians. His Houdini-like escapes from maximum-security prisons only added to his enigmatic legend.
You rushed to the kitchen where your mom was. I discovered your family runs an online business, now struggling since customers learned about your mom's dementia. Reviews mentioned inconsistent cake sweetness, raisins in unexpected flavors and, disturbingly, insect contaminants.
To keep her occupied, I ordered a dozen brownies from her. You greeted your mom with a hug and glanced at her work.
"What's the occasion for the baking?" you asked her.
"Just a regular day, but our newest neighbor from across the street placed an order for brownies. Once his order is delivered, I'll invite him to dinner. Curiously, Rigolos, he echoes your youthful energy, sharing your age."
A renewed sense of purpose filled you as someone reawakened your mom's passion. Your attention shifted to the dripping pipe, requiring urgent repair. Amidst the tinkering, you glanced up to find your mom serenely crocheting in her favorite rocking chair. While holding an adjustable wrench, you noticed pans filled with batter sitting on the table.
"Mom, I think you forgot to put these pans in the oven," you reminded her. She immediately stopped crocheting, worry flashing across her face.
"Thank you, son. I'd hate to disappoint my customer by delaying his order."
After placing the pans in the oven, she set the timer. You need to monitor it, as leaving her alone might result in burnt baked goods or, worse, a fire. While observing the oven timer, your mother, typically occupied with radio music or watering plants, surprisingly checked on the brownies. Even though she has dementia, you didn't make her feel like she's ill. When she forgets something, you immediately remind her, but worry is visible on your face.
From my window, I observed you departing your residence with a brownie box. Assuming you personally opted for delivery since your mother was occupied in the kitchen, you rang the doorbell with your left hand, and I promptly answered.
"Good afternoon. Here's your order," you said, holding the brownie box. I retrieved my wallet from my back pocket to collect payment and decided to double it.
"Here's my payment," I replied, handing you the money. Although you didn't count it, you knew it exceeded the amount due.
"Wow, your tip is generous! Thank you so much." Your eyes sparkle like stars when you hold the cash. I went ahead and open the box.
"These look delicious. I've been craving sweets, but I'm too lazy to go out. I searched online for nearby bakeries accepting orders and found your business. How long have you been operating?"
"Actually, our business was thriving, but competitors copied Mom's baking style and left poor reviews, causing her depression and triggering her illness. However, your kindness revitalized her spirit, and I'm truly grateful."
"Do you know those who are sabotaging your mom?"
"Of course, I know them well. They're our neighbors in Blue Neighborhood and Mom's former close friends. I've confronted them, but they denied all allegations, claiming they didn't post those negative reviews."
"Envy can indeed cause harm. When someone succumbs to it, friendships are likely to suffer." You agree with what I said.
"By the way, Mom and I would like to invite you to dinner at our place. Today marks my parents' wedding anniversary, and we're hosting a small celebration at our residence. Mom's cooking, and I'll assist her when I get back. So, see you later."
As you hurried back to your house, I returned to mine, deciding to freshen up with a shower. After dressing casually, I stepped outside, noticing the fading light. Crossing the street, I arrived at your doorstep and pressed the doorbell. Your mother's lovely smile greeted me. Her warm hug made me feel like I'd been part of her life for years, like a beloved son.
"Your timing is perfect. Everything's almost ready, and we've been waiting for you," she said, leading me to the dining area where I saw you washing your hands.
You look impeccable. Everyone's dressed nicely. However, Burgundy caught my attention, meticulously placing a linen napkin on her lap, and greeting me with a warm smile. If I wore the prosthetic mask from the music festival, which I also used to spy on her, she'd surely recognize me. However, I'm wearing a different disguise to observe you.
As I approached her, I introduced myself, and to my surprise, she warmly reciprocated. Rosenthale Dandrieb, a name I'd known for a while, rolled off her tongue effortlessly. Her firm handshake, however, revealed rough, sandpaper-like palms. No need for formal introductions to you and your mother; our brownie transaction earlier had already broken the ice.
We three sat around the table, awaiting your mom's arrival. She entered with a freshly roasted turkey, straight from the oven. As we held hands for the blessing, I felt Burgundy's rugged hand again. Your mom led us in prayer.
"If your husband were alive, how many years would your marriage have been?" Burgundy asked your mom after the supplication.
"We would have been married for twenty-four years," she replied.
"I wish I could have a better half and share a similar long-lasting marriage," she added. Savoring her dish, Burgundy involuntarily let out a delighted moan, garnering everyone's attention. It wasn't seeking attention, but pure gastronomic joy.
"This is the best roasted turkey I've ever tasted," Burgundy exclaimed. Your mom seemed touched by her compliment.
"Please, help yourself to more. There's no need to be modest; we have plenty of food." Your mom's really welcoming.
Aside from being hospitable, she's also the type to knock on neighbors' doors to share food. However, as assassins, we shouldn't be swayed by kindness, despite understanding its concept. Our mission remains: dispatching targets, regardless of their benevolence.
"Fortunately, Layvalor allowed you to come here. As you know, he's quite strict." You said this while slicing a piece of turkey meat on your plate.
"I was lucky he was in a favorable mood, allowing me to come here without hassle," she answered before taking a bite.
"You've become even more lovely, Rosenthale, since moving into Mr. Ranguard's residence. Does a secret admirer stir your heart?" Your mom's remark made her blush, and she looked down, smiling. Then, she raised her gaze and looked at you.
"I'm currently focused on my life objectives; romance isn't on my radar."
"Why not? You can pursue goals and love simultaneously."
"Mom, while it's possible to balance both, Rosenthale has different priorities." Your mom's constant teasing of Burgundy prompts you to speak up.
"You're another hopeless romantic. You haven't introduced me to anyone special yet." You scratched the back of your neck, looking embarrassed, while Burgundy laughed at your expression. Then, all your attention shifted to me.
"What do you do, Kintsugi?" Burgundy inquired. I adjusted my sitting position, feeling slightly uncomfortable."
"I manage a tangerine farm in Montreot, and I'm also a transfer student at LeCentral, majoring in Architectural Design." You were left speechless, seemingly impressed by my tangerine plantation.
"It seems we're schoolmates. I'm majoring in Accounting, while Rigolos is studying Mechanical Engineering."
"Do you live alone in that house?" you added.
"My parents are based abroad, so I'm the only one left here."
"Don't you feel sad about your living situation?" your mother asked me.
"I'm not really sad about living alone; I've gotten used to it. They want me to follow them, but I prefer staying here."
Afterward, I drank wine, and as we conversed, you couldn't distinguish fact from fiction in my words, or whether they were entirely true or entirely false. The dinner table was filled with lively conversations and laughter. You engaged me in discussions to make me feel included. However, our merriment was disrupted when someone threw an egg at the window. The egg shattered and the yolk stuck to the glass. But that wasn't the end; the egg-throwing continued.
You stood up, and Burgundy seemed shaken by your expression. You exited the table, and I saw you grab a baseball bat. Burgundy followed, leaving your stunned mother trailing behind. I discreetly dabbed my mouth with a napkin before standing. Upon exiting, I saw scattered tissue paper rolls and broken eggs. You attempted to chase the motorcycle riders, but they quickly sped away and vanished from sight. Your firm grip on the baseball bat handle contrasted with the intense anger and irritation engraved on your face.
"These people have no respect. Clearly, their parents didn't teach them good manners," your mother said, surveying the trash outside your home."
"Do you think they mistakenly targeted the wrong house?" Burgundy asked, standing beside you.
"I doubt it. They intentionally hit our house. What puzzles me is why, among all homes in Blue Neighborhood, ours was their chosen target."
"Did you have any conflicts today, recently, or in the past? They wouldn't do this unless you'd wronged them somehow," Burgundy added.
"You know me. I'm not one to seek trouble. While I stand up for myself when disrespected, conflicts usually resolve amicably. Individuals of our age group wouldn't engage in such behavior. Only high school students, likely under instruction, would consider this."
"I strongly suspect they did this out of jealousy." The wind stings, and Burgundy's right – someone's envious of you.
Let's recap what I've learned about you. You're the only son, and since your father passed away two years ago, your mother has been the sole breadwinner. Before his passing, he left you a million, which your mother invested in her pastry business. Unfortunately, harsh online criticism triggered her dementia. You supplement your income by working as a mechanic at a car shop.
But what draws envy? Your exceptional demeanor caught my attention from the start. Your tough exterior contrasts with your gentle heart, yet your strong principles make you really appealing, especially to those who can't help but feel jealous.
If not Badboy, Warchaic is another suspect with a motive behind this scheme. And this time, they're not green-eyed of your qualities.
The catalyst behind this is Burgundy.