Texas was simply a glorious day for Billy; the smell of meat filled his nostrils, drifting in with wonder and a kind of magic from every direction. The wax of leather, the charcoal, and the scent of damp plants all blended. As the sprinklers spun at every angle, the smoke from the tractor intertwined with blooming flowers, the earthy color of petrichor enchanting the land.
—You have a beautiful property in Texas. —commented Monica, taking in the large estate with its lovely three-story house. The third floor was a custom library Billy had built for himself, where he planned to write. Four large bedrooms, each with its own bathroom on the second floor, and on the first floor, a massive kitchen, a handsome living room, and a dining room with fifteen seats. A door led outside to a stone path with a few metal tables and chairs, and a small covered area with four gray outdoor fabric sofas.
—Just finished building it, three acres of land. —answered Billy, seeing everything with simple pride. The elegant structures each carried their own kind of wealth, easy to describe in their own way. They were held under the Billy Carson Trust, where he kept most of his investments managed through the firm he oversaw, with a family partnership as beneficiary—an interesting arrangement that carried a delicate advantage in the world of finance.
—Well, now let's just enjoy the days. —said Billy, who had called in several people to help give the home its finishing touches. Lavish meals would be served throughout the house. Somehow, Billy already knew the family seemed to be waking from the mistakes of the past, stepping into a new era where needs fell into the background and comfort finally returned. The frost hadn't come, the harvests were good, the cattle sold well, and the new construction-tools business made just enough to sustain itself, while the real estate income helped ease the burden of the family's educational expenses.
One thing the Carsons always had was numbers—many children. At least his cousins now had two kids each, and another on the way. A steady multiplication and tender care, with no doubt that the children were the heart of it all.
—It has a nice bathtub. —whispered Monica to Billy, desperately craving the thought of being taken, deliciously and in all the ways that awakened the spirit. A marvel pressed by the object of her desire, pushing her soul into a hundred willing shapes. She tried to keep herself from slipping into that moment of heat, that boundary where passion meets pure abandon.
—Tonight. —said Billy, well aware of Monica's routine of love-soaked baths, while her wide hips nearly made people gasp when she walked past.
—Alright, now let me be. I know you have a lot to do. —answered Monica sweetly, already resigning herself to the idea that the next few days would leave her with little time to relax or read the novels she'd missed during her long workdays as a model.
—We need to go to Grandpa's at seven, get ready, my love. —Billy whispered, giving her a playful slap on the hips. She sighed as he walked back into the house to finish the chapters he had pending for the upcoming deadlines. Each one of them was, to him, a matter of certainty.
—You just go and draw. —said Monica. She surrendered to the quiet, practical words of work. The day was beautiful; she wanted a bit of wine—a delicious glass that would help her answer life's questions, those truths so intimate and particular.
Billy climbed the wide staircase, curving into a U toward the second floor, and then the third floor rose with an L-shaped stairway, easy and inviting. Large windows covered part of the ceiling; the modern design filled the white calm of the room with light, perfect for focus. His portfolio rested beside him with everything he needed, and with the truth of his soul laid bare, the purpose of each sheet and sketch aligned. Every drawing station carried its own precision.
Death Note had a total of 108 chapters, but Billy extended the plot to 130 chapters, compiled into 100 chapters of 100 pages each—just a little more than a notebook, yet far too much for any ordinary workload. Some special ones had 80 sheets, meaning 160 pages, practically a small book. He was writing chapter 29, enough to stay loyal to a sequential rewrite of the entire Death Note, entirely separate from the anime, adding touches and raw details as expected for a final scene.
One thing about diverging from the author's path and from the manga's—two very different things—is that extending a story can sometimes create a hollow loneliness for disturbing something that was already just right.
—We have 30 minutes. —called Monica from the second floor. She wore a long pale-blue dress, with two ruby earrings in white gold dangling beside her face, blooming against her deep, understated wine-red lipstick. The way they framed her eyes was simply divine.
…
—It'll do. —said Billy, hugging his father, who stood with his four children, all boys from ages five to four months. Each one adorable in his own way, while Ivanova looked serene, perfectly at peace in her mastery of caring for four kids. Thomas had hired a housekeeper to help tidy the place.
—It's a little strange and a little comforting that we're having a family dinner that feels so distant, though your father and stepmother are what you'd call… different. —said Monica.
The sweet turkey, once made by Mrs. Carson—the grandmother—had been her masterpiece, and now Ivanova had learned the recipe to perfection. The syrupy flavor, with plum sauce adding a soft sweetness, paired beautifully with the potato salad.
—It's better than being surrounded by the sugar-coated elites of society who want a marketable slice of the stars while they're just using us. Here at least they're a little afraid. —said Billy, tasting the sweet food, so easy and simple to enjoy people for who they were in his family's home. Nothing distant or extraordinary, just the perfect middle ground between privacy and peace—coming home and savoring what remained.
—Well, I just don't like that they serve so many potatoes; it almost feels like the national side dish. I'd prefer some sautéed vegetables, some cheese, maybe a panini. —whispered Monica, tasting the potato, her diet forbidding it in the kind of way that promised long exercise routines to maintain her figure.
—I'll just eat meat and be done, there's plenty. —answered Billy, eyeing the cuts cooked to a perfect sweetness, the juices almost melting in his mouth.
—Forget it. It's just one meal. —said Monica, setting her fork down. Nothing more, nothing less. She would later move to the women's table; listening to others always helped her. The sixteen-year-old girl who needed advice from a beautiful woman—it happened often, whether expected or not.
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