House of Clowns (HUNT Trilogy #1)

1. ONE

ONE

ACE

T he autumn of the year 2022 came silently, tinting the streets of La Maddalena mainly in shades of amber and brown. The first leaves from the oak trees fluttered down, mixing with the puddles and mud while rain drummed on the cobblestone. There wasn't a biting chill, but the rain—constant, atomized drizzle—wrapped the town in mist that seeped into the bones and made the air thick and damp. Even the familiar streets seemed blurred, as though seen through fogged glass, the world slipping into a slow, heavy stupor.

I trudged down Razzoli Street—my yellow raincoat sticking to my skin, weighed down by the constant onslaught of rain. I clutched three wilting sunflowers in my hand and a card, small and slightly crumpled: "Happy birthday, Mom."

Rain squeezed the life from the flowers, their heads bowed as if in mourning. Days of darkness and rain had stolen their bloom; the petals were now limp and sullen. Still, they were her favorite. And that was enough.

My curls, dark and unruly, were plastered to my forehead, each strand drinking in the downpour to then curl even tighter against my scalp. The streetlights danced, casting weak pools of yellow light reflected upon the slick pavement, making puddles appear like tiny shifting mirrors. Every step might have sent ripples through the water, the splash of my green rubber boots swallowed up in the rhythmic patter of the rain.

I glanced longingly at Mr. Beppo's little bookstore on the corner, its warm glow spilling out onto the sidewalk outside—so comforting. How I wished to step inside, just for a moment, just to shake off the wet chill, and breathe in the scent of old paper and ink. But there wasn't time. I needed to be home before ten, before my little brother woke up, and the day's chaos began. Someone had to get him ready for school. Dad was no help. He was probably already slumped on the couch, a half-empty bottle beside him, the television babbling along with laugh tracks that filled up the house but left it more empty than ever.

Thinking of him tugged something in my chest—a dull ache, so familiar, and one I tried to shake off as I quickened my pace. He used to be something more. He was now but a shadow, his laughter tumbling not from the joie de vivre , but from the bottom of a bottle; rage was a tempest at his throat, waiting to break. And we, my brother and I were merely the casualties of this quiet war of his. Every blow, every word cut marks keener than any knife.

But I pushed it all away as I moved on, feeling the rain prick my skin like icy needles through my coat. The street narrowed as I reached the intersection, the gray sky darkening further. Instinctively my eyes darted right as I prepared to cross, and without thinking, I stepped forward and slammed into something solid. The impact sent me stumbling backward, and I barely managed to stay upright. The card slipped from my fingers, caught instantly in the swirling rainwater, skittering toward the gutter.

"No, no, no!" I gasped, dropping to my knees onto the slick asphalt as the rain battered my shoulders. The flowers fell beside me, their delicate petals bruised and torn. I felt so desperate as I leaned forward, fingers brushing the edge of the card just as a pale, slender hand reached it first.

I froze.

His fingers brushed mine, cold as ice, and my breath caught. Slowly, he lifted the card and offered it to me; his gaze met mine. I looked up, and the world seemed to tilt.

He loomed over me, rain dripping from the brim of his hat, white paint running down his face like melted wax. His eyes were an ice blue, almost unnatural, the sort of blue that pierced through the grayness of the day. Black paint framed them, two harsh, smeared lines that stretched from brow to cheek, giving his gaze an eerie, hollow intensity. His mouth was painted into a garish red smile, the color smudged and bleeding at the corners so that it smeared in a wide, unsettling grin across his cheeks. And on the tip of his nose, a round, crimson circle stood in jarring contrast to the pale, painted skin.

I stared, my breath shallow, my heart hammering against my ribs. He was like a nightmare risen from bad dreams: an eldritch jester, cast in the rain, the hair of his head so white, dripping wet and plastered upon his forehead.

For a moment neither of us stirred. The downfall came harder, sifting ceaselessly between us like a curtain, yet I could not take my eyes away.

"I'm sorry," I probably whispered, my voice faint, hardly heard in the poundings of rain.

His lips twitched, a flicker of something that could have been a smile or a sneer. Then, in a voice so soft it was almost lost in the rain, he murmured, "There's no need to apologize."

I swallowed, a shiver running along my spine. His paint-stained fingers touched the card, smearing marks like ghostly fingerprints. He held it out to me, his eyes never leaving mine.

"Happy birthday," he said softly—the tone mocking, yet oddly tender—and that weird, sad smile never wavered.

For a second, I couldn't move. Then, with shaking hands, I reached out and took the card from his hand, my fingers brushing his once more. They were still ice cold.

"Thank you," I whispered, but the words seemed empty, taken by the storm raging around us.

With a slow nod, he straightened, his head tipping slightly in what might have been a bow, and just as he moved, his other hand, from behind his back, clutching a bright red balloon. It bobbed very slightly, the string tugged taut between his long fingers. A logo in bold black letters read, "House of Clowns."

My breath caught in my throat, and my mouth fell open as fear crawled through my chest. I stood frozen, pulse hammering, it would seem, with every beat urging me to run. But I couldn't look away.

"Take it," he growled, his voice low and knobby, deep and gravelly—a sound that jarred hard against the gaudy makeup on his face. I forced myself to move, my fingers shaking as I reached out.

"Thank you," I breathed, and it was a small frail word against the storm noises around us.

He whirled abruptly, a red leather jacket creaking as he moved. The rain washed over him, soaking the black jeans molded to his muscular frame. I just stood and watched as he vanished into the fog. His silhouette shrank, swallowed into the grey curtain of rain, until all that was left of him became the faint bobbing of the red balloon, fading away.

Shuddering, I shook myself and knelt once more to gather the sunflowers that had fallen. But their petals were bruised and broken, streaked with dirt.

Still hers. Still for her.

I stood, rain poking off my nose and chin, and started down the street, holding fragile stems as if actually holding them together could somehow keep me from falling apart; the park loomed ahead—a quiet oasis amidst the dreariness. I pushed through the wet grass, each step squelching under my boots, till I reached the small marble headstone nestled beneath the towering oak.

My mother's grave. Yet it was just a stone and a patch of earth—no body lay beneath it. She had never been found. It seemed like the wind whispered through the branches above, a soft, mournful sigh that echoed my thoughts.

"Hey, Mom," I said softly, dropping to my knees beside the grave. "Happy birthday."

I leaned the sunflowers gently against the base of the stone and watched as raindrops trickled down their stems and pooled into the creases of the petals. They looked as forlorn as I felt. A tear slipped down my cheek, its warm sting a contrast to cold rain. I hunched down broader, knees sinking into the wet earth as sharp pointy pebbles and blades of grass dug in—but I didn't care. The pain had grown just another element of me—something I hardly noticed any longer.

"I miss you," I mouthed softly, my voice breaking. I closed my eyes and tried to envision her smile, the way her eyes crinkled in the corners when she laughed. "I'm lost and I'm hurt… but I still love you."

The words spilled, each one a thread pulled at the frayed edges of my heart. I sat back on my heels, boots wet from the rain mingling with my tears as I did so. "I wrote you something." I unfolded the soaked card, holding it up with shaking hands. The ink had bled, words running together in dark smears, but I could still make out the lines I'd carefully penned.

"Every day when I open my eyes, I see you," I began, my voice a strained whisper. "And every night, when I close them, I feel you fading away. I still feel your hand on my shoulder, and still taste the apple strudel you used to bake… but the scent of you is slipping away. Fading."

The card shook in my hand, the paper so wet it threatened to rip. I blinked onto my chest, forcing myself to continue even as the words blurred. "When you left, a piece of me disappeared too. I never got to say goodbye. I never got to say… I love you. But I won't forget you. I can't forget the way you made everything feel safe, the way you made life seem bearable because you were the best, Mom. The best. And I'll always be your little sunflower."

I choked, my voice breaking on the last word. A sob tore through me, raw and ugly, and I crumpled forward, clutching the card to my chest. Rain continued to lash down, relentlessly, washing away the last traces of ink, erasing the final, fragile words I'd tried so hard to keep.

Slowly, I straightened, my knees aching as I stood. My fingers brushed the headstone, tracing the inscription: "Arianne Serra, Nel cuore di chi l'ha amata, vive per sempre." ( In the hearts of those who loved her, she lives forever. )

I laid the card softly against the base of the stone, smoothing it as best I could, knowing full well it would be ruined by morning. I bent down, kissed my fingertips, and pressed them against the small photo set into the stone. Her face smiled back at me, forever young, forever beautiful.

"I wish I could hug you again," I whispered—voice swallowed by the rain. "I wish… I wish it didn't feel like nothing's safe anymore."

But wishes were useless. She was gone, and I was here, and all I had left was memories slipping like sand through my fingers. Slowly, I turned away, the ache in my chest expanding, threatening to swallow me whole. I made myself walk, one foot in front of the other, until the grave was just another shadow in the mist, and I was alone again.

The park was a blur behind me; the wind cut at my face. Somewhere, the red balloon was blowing aimlessly, caught in a branch—its bright color a jarring splash against the gray. I tore my eyes away and kept walking, clutching the empty ache in my chest.

No one would ever love me the way she did. No one could ever love me that much. And that thought was sharp and bitter, yet somehow keeping me on as I walked in the rain, promising me with every step, promising me with every heartbeat.

Just a small sunflower wilting in the rain.