A long drive, even if it was only four times around the city, just to come back to the doorstep. She wanted to be one of the last to arrive. She didn’t like being first and she definitely didn’t like coming last, the entire journey a repeated CD of Christmas hits. It may have been the end of Dad’s life, but it was just a pit stop right in the middle of hers and she hadn’t taken a single second to think about the fact that someone was DEAD. Being dead, after all, didn’t seem like the worst thing that could happen. Truth be told, she was excited. Excited to find out what had happened, to hear every gory tearing detail about how Dad’s body had been laid there on the ground with his head bashed in like in a graphic novel. She was excited to come face to face with a murderer, to be able to look them in the eye and share the same breath, to feel how it felt to be in their shoes. She was excited and she didn’t try to hide it, she had no comprehension of how twisted that was. The grin on her face hadn’t left in years and that night when she had seen December running from their lovely little home, she had been interested but now she was simply obsessed. Nothing surprised her, but that had. That had shaken her and now she was thirsty to find out why. The car screeched as it stopped, sun roof popped off, license plate dangling off the front as if it had been part of a war and came out a tormented survivor. She was the war. Nothing had ever survived. The sound of Driving Home For Christmas echoed cheerily into the cold afternoon air as she kicked the door open, stepping out and turning to the first of the people she saw. A curious look was on her face, perhaps one that would have been comforting from a sibling that you knew and loved but from Emilio was only eerie, “It’s awful, isn’t it?” She yelled over her own loud music, “I can’t believe he’s gone.”