A/N: Well, it’s back. Being rewritten and gorier than ever. XD half joking and lol. Hopefully more accurate this time. If you would be so kind as to click that little rectangular button at the bottom, left-hand corner of your computer and leave a review, I would be very much obliged. Thank you. Rated for violence, blood, language, and, well, things may be implied. Lol.

DISCLAIMER: Every character belongs to me. I’m sorry if I end up getting any information about the nature of federal agents, or the agency in general, for I am not in the FBI. Lol.

Heart’s Folly

By Jenna

Prologue

            “Dad, I have to go back to America tomorrow. I’m running out of vacation time. I’m leaving around four. Okay?” Max told his father.

            “Of course. A twenty-eight-year-old man can’t spend all of his vacation time with his father,” Thomas Waverly replied. The guilt trips aren’t going to work, Dad, Max thought to himself, sighing. Mr. Waverly smiled at his son as he sat his rather round self down in his favorite armchair in his study. The dark-green upholstered one smack in front of the fireplace. Mr. Waverly had a rather large bald spot in the center of the top of his head. His only hair was snowy white, thinning, and only covered the sides and the back of his head.

            “And I suppose you think a thirty-two year old man living with his father for a time is a disgrace?” Lucas, Max’s brother and Mr. Waverly’s eldest son, teased. “It’s only because we work in the same company.”

            “Gee, thanks,” Mr. Waverly joked back.

            “Goodnight,” Max said, receiving a murmured response, before walking down the hallway towards the stairs.

            “Night, Dad,” Lucas stated, and then headed up the stairs to go to sleep. Mr. Waverly returned to his book.

            It had been dark and stormy that night of March 28, 2002. So dark that one could scarce see a foot in front of one’s nose, as the clouds had blocked out the pale light of the waning moon.

            A tremendous clap of thunder sounded. Mr. Waverly jumped, startled. Secure as his home in London was, what with him being the CEO of his American company, Waverly Enterprises, the American could not shake the sensation of being watched. Mr. Waverly shrugged it off. The horror book he was reading was just getting to him; that was all. He stood to put the book away, blissfully oblivious to the black-clad shape looming behind him.

            A shot rang through the air, shattering all silence through the house as though it were a pane of glass. The killer cursed under their breath. They’d forgotten the silencer.

            A thump came from upstairs as someone tumbled out of bed, soon followed by more sounds. The killer fled, once more cursing their stupidity.

~*~*~*~

            Bridget and Robert nearly toppled over one another as they fell out of bed. Bridget, the first up, flew down the hallway and down the stairs. Once she reached the study though, where the sound had originated from, a shrill cry burst forth from Bridget’s vocal chords. Here olive green eyes were wide. One hand covered her mouth, the tips of the fingers on the other one resting in her reddish brown hair.

            Soon footsteps came up behind her, and Bridget heard her husband Robert curse under his breath. More footsteps resounded in the corridor.

            Mr. Waverly now lay face-down in a large pool of his own blood. The crimson liquid still emanated from the back of his skull, though merely because his cranium had overflowed with it once the bullet had pierced his skull and entered his gray matter. Rivers of red trickled and flowed down his bloodless temples and cheeks. His eyes were wide open, blank, and glazed. His face was frozen in the contorted look of fear and pain that he had obtained in his last seconds. The polished hardwood floor was now tainted with his blood, stained crimson. Blood stained Mr. Waverly’s green plaid night-robe, and his white T-shirt beneath it.

            “Someone call the police,” Max whispered, his chiseled featured hard, slate blue eyes as cold as ice, and taking no heed of the strands of his ear-length black hair that had fallen across his forehead and eyes.

            “Shit,” Lucas breathed. Morgan Thorton, a young employee of Mr. Waverly’s, dashed off to the kitchen phone to make the call.

            Everyone else though, seemed rather transfixed, openly gaping at the cold, pale, lifeless body of Mr. Waverly that lay before them.