Mr. Androusey, who are you talking too, "Ms. Campton enquired?"
No one, why are you ease dropping on me, I wasn't, I thought I heard you call out to a woman, she responded.
Aren't you done yet, with your cleaning, almost Mr. Androusey.
Thornton carefully watching her every move, Ring. Ringling...Thornton dashing to the phone, as beads of sweat formed across his forehead.
Hello, who am I speaking too, "Oh Mr. Greenbrier, how are you, Yes I have the painting ready.
Ms. Campton started to make her way with the mop down the foyer, and back through to the stairwell. She had noticed a silhouette in white, drained with red, upon a pale figured face, scrunched beneath the staircase. Ms. Campton couldn't believe her eyes, "Oh my, with worry in her voice!"
Help, help...as she was choking on her saliva, "Mr. Androusey, screaming from the foyer!"
Thornton come rushing with disbelief in his face, Look...look, that's the girl in your painting, Ms. Campton muffled. He reached down to pick up Claire's helpless discolored body. Placed her on the Chesterfield, while Ms. Campton stared in bewildered...
Thornton stood up, and reached into his pockets in despair, In one quick shot; he turned to Ms. Campton, and snapped her neck. She dropped to the floor, like a drum-beat, as her eyes began to slip away with life.
Thornton kneeled down beside Claire's shallow breathing body, caressing her shoulder's, "Oh my sweet Claire"; wake my love, as he tried shaking her. Claire laid there in stained blood dress bandages, pale had flowered her beautiful face, with long brown curls that draped her eyes.
Thornton ran to the kitchen, to get some water, to drench her redden lips with a dish towel. Please wake, please...don't dye on me, Shaking her repeatedly, Yet Claire wasn't moving or responsive.