"So, what was your sister like?"

Priscilla continued to wash dishes, and began to hum.

"I saw you crying, you know?" Zack searched for the words. "You seemed to care about her more than you let on. You never really talked about her."

A condescending laugh erupted from Priscilla's mouth, the first true-to-character moment since the funeral. Zack was tempted to search for the scar again. Maybe he'd just missed it.

She spoke in a low tone, eyes trained on the dishes. "My sister. She was a bit of a loser, I guess. That's probably why I never spoke of her. She was an anxious girl who didn't know how to interact with people, so maybe she just pushed them all away. Convinced no one truly cared about her."

Zack remained silent.

So she filled in the air. "She went crazy, and no one could tell her a thing, especially me. She probably hated me. She always felt I was so headstrong and competent; maybe she felt I looked down on her all these years." Her scrubbing began to slow. "Really, I probably loved my sister more than she loved herself. She was just too broken a woman to see it, before it was too late.

Zack noticed tears welling up in her eyes and rushed to comfort her. "I'm sure your sister knew how special your bond was when she passed." He hated seeing people in pain, so it was instinctual. He was still cautious of this Priscilla, though.

It was her turn to remain silent, so he continued. "Love is complicated." He recalled what Priscilla told him about Love on their honeymoon night. She'd jabbed a nagging finger at him and exclaimed, "Love is a pragmatic decision. No one is entitled to it, as it doesn't exist. It's a decision forged in fire each day. You can love anyone.

He'd cried when she told him, his illusion of being viewed as Prince Charming crushed. He asked this Priscilla, "What do you think about love?"

She hesitated, biting her thumb before answering. "I think Love is like a flower, guaranteed to bloom if nourished and protected. I don't think you ever truly love anyone, just their avatar, their place in your life. My sister would probably agree."

An interesting take but different from what he'd expected from Priscilla. Before he pounced further, Clarice danced into the room, tortured goldfish in hand. The fish was belly up in his little beg. PETA would have our heads for this, Zack thought.

"Daddy, Mr. Bubbles is taking another nap and won't wake up," Clarice said.

Priscilla pounced on the interruption. "Well, I'm sure he'll be bright and awake tomorrow morning! Daddy will read you and Mr. Bubbles a nice bedtime story for sweet dreams." The smile on her face was so sweet any child would eat it up, but an adult would feel sick.

Clarice left the room, and Zack began a slow, defeated stroll after her until Priscilla spoke again.

"She's had quite a few of those, hasn't she?"

"Yeah," Zack said.

"That's the beautiful thing about being treated as a child; the mature try to save you from the reality of life." She scrubbed harder on the dishes as she spoke.

Zack pondered the phrasing before turning towards her. "Do you think some vicious nemesis killed your sister? Someone she pissed off?"

Priscilla hesitated. "Probably not. We come from a family of weakened constitutions. Disease and illness plague us. She probably knew she was dying and chose to go out on her terms." She shrugged. "A bastard of a fighter to the end, I guess."

"Oh." Zack moved toward the door. Before he left, he stopped and said, "you were never this polite before the funeral. Lots of attitude and snide remarks. I wouldn't mind a bit more of it."

"That so?" Priscilla tossed the dirty dish in her hand into the sink. "Then how about you clean these fucking dishes, and I read her a bedtime story."