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it was too late to trust him, she had fallen in love with him but knew her place and never overstepped her boundaries with Alan or his wife. She knew Alan’s wife was aware of her, so it was a mutual understanding among the three. We don’t see it and we don’t talk about it.
FRANKIE’S PUB
    From across the street, Abigail watched the commotion of the funeral unfold. Abigail worked in Frankie’s Pub , an Irish pub with about 15 tables and eight booths on the right side. Centered on the left wall was a huge mahogany colored bar about 15 feet long with copper fittings on the corners. The wall behind the bar was stacked with various top shelf and house liquors. The door to the kitchen was just to the right side of the bar. The floor was constructed of thick maple hardwood, glossed over in a half inch polyurethane coating. In the center of the floor was a large green shamrock painted years earlier. The pub had pictures of Celtics, Bruins, Red Sox team players and memorabilia from just about all Massachusetts professional sports teams posted on the “Wall of Fame.” There were even pictures of the old Springfield YMCA, the birthplace of basketball. An 8 foot long black awning displayed “FRANKIE’S PUB” with a shamrock separating the two words.
    Abigail stood about five feet, eight inches tall and had a slender build. She had thick, long, black hair, which hung down to the middle of her back below her shoulder blades. She had a tanned complexion. Her ethnicity was hard to determine, but Frankie, her boss, would have guessed she was part Asian as her eyes were slightly slanted. She had a beauty mark under her right eye. Over the same eye, her eyebrow had a slit in it from a past injury. Her brown eyes were dark and cold, especially when she wasn’t smiling or when she was deep in thought.
    She watched the scene outside through the window as various limos and cars were driven to the front, unloading pretentious passengers who represented various types of executives, investors, coworkers, professors and family friends. Emotionless, her eyes glanced over to Alan’s widow and her parents congregating in front of the basilica’s main entrance. The dark clouds hovered low today. Abigail was cleaning glasses behind the bar while watching the important men and women entering and leaving the basilica. They were all sharply dressed in black and dark shades of blue and gray. She thought they looked like corrupt government officials sneaking into a covert Illuminati meeting. 
    Abigail was captivated by all that she saw and wanted to know more. With all of the news crews outside, she figured TV stations must be airing this live. Where is the remote? She found the remote and changed the station until she saw Samantha Callahan reporting. Samantha was a tall, slender blonde woman whose signature style was to wear something pink every day. She always wore too much makeup and was caught a few times cursing at the camera man, unaware that she was still live on national television. Abigail and her coworker, Roger, continued their daily cleaning rituals as they watched the latest news unfold across the street and on TV at the same time.
    “We’re here live outside at the funeral of international investment phenomenon Alan Jiang, CEO of Chapel and Case Investment Company. His body was found five days ago, washed up on the shores of the Atlantic Ocean in Portland, Maine, with a gunshot wound to the head and neck. Apparently, he was on a fishing trip…”
    Roger poked his head out of the dishwasher, “That’s fucked up.” Roger was a drop out from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, MIT for short, located in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Roger stood about 5’11” with light brown hair and a “boy band” haircut. He had bangs that hung over his face and made him look immature and younger than he really was. He lived with his mother and was an introvert with everyone else except Abigail and Frankie, the owner of the pub. After two