[ WP ] You are a butler for a rather wealthy couple . They 're serial killers , brutal notorious ones , hiding in plain sight , but you serve them . The only reason you are alive is because they you wo n't say anything . They know you ca n't .

“ Next to the rose bushes. After 8 PM. ” 
 
 The air feels damp as I bury a stale German girl in the rear corner of the garden. From the window of the dressing room in the second floor, I sense the presence of Mrs. Wilson as she stands tall in her evening garment. I stop for a while and stare back at her with a faint smile on my face – it is to acknowledge that I understand the butler ’ s duty; to always be present but invisible, to always know but never expose. 
 
 Next to the German girl lies an Arab boy, perhaps 15 or 18. It is difficult to tell because he was a meek child with a frail bone structure. Above the Arab boy lies a girl whose life stopped abruptly in her early 20 ’ s, and next to her, another girl, and next to that girl, a six-years-old child whose blonde hair and deep-set dimples once earned him the nickname, Little Prince. Upon arrival, the bodies share similar signature wounds; 16 stab wounds to the lower abdomen region and signs of asphyxiation. As I bury the body deep into the grounds, I share a prayer under my breath, “ May you rest in peace, my child. May your sins be forgiven. ” By next Spring, roses will grow in this spot and hide the secrets that lie within. 
 
 “ Francis, order the cleaners to wipe off the dust on the frames. We don ’ t want to embarrass our guests, do we? ” 
 
 “ Of course, Mrs. Wilson. I ’ ll have a word with Jeanne in the morning. ” 
 
 As Mrs. Wilson scurries to her room, I inspect the photos hanging on wooden frames. In one photograph, I see the Arab boy and Mr. Wilson in front of the Ferris wheel. They are smiling like friends – maybe even like father and son – and it is obvious that *he* didn ’ t see it coming. There ’ s a small framed photo of the little blonde boy and freckled German girl. The girl is holding the boy in her arms at a familiar park, posing to get the photo taken. Her smile is wide and the boy is giggling; his dimples cast a shadow in his tiny chubby cheeks. There are several group photos from different dates. One noticeable photo is set in a room in this house that used to be a nursery. That room no longer exists, but it is rather unnerving to look at Mr. Wilson sharing cookies and milk with these children, 7 of them in total but 6 of them buried and “ forgiven. ” 
 
 Few hours pass by and Mr. Wilson returns from his last hunt. The front gate squeaks as he enters with a brown sack in his arms. It is dim inside the house, but I can sense that his suit is damp with the metallic odor of this last kill. I follow Mr. Wilson to the garden. 
 
 “ Take this, Francis. ” 
 
 “ Is this the last one, sir? ” 
 
 “ Yes, it ’ s over, my friend. It ’ s done. ” 
 
 “ I understand, sir. I ’ ll finish the rest when you go rest, sir. ” 
 
 “ No, no, Francis. I want to see the last one go away. I waited for years. ” 
 
 Mr. Wilson stands close to the rose bush as I start digging up a vacant space – a spot I left next to the Little Prince. He takes out a chained locket and lays it next to the bones of the golden boy. It is a photo of Mr. Wilson and his baby prince - the little boy whose dimples Mr. Wilson once so proudly showed the world - both of them smiling brighter than sunshine. 
 
 “ It is time to let go of my baby boy. I have forgiven them all now, ” Mr. Wilson mutters. 
 
 
 He takes a final look at the small patch of land where James, his baby prince, is buried. It was Mr. Wilson's little boy that was found rotten in an empty water tank one hot Summer day. The German girl, Arab boy, the ginger girl, and 3 other neighborhood kids who stabbed and strangled the child and hid the body in a neighborhood tank, the same girls and boys that Mr. and Mrs. Wilson once naïvely trusted, were all forgiven under the thick layer of soil. I offered my prayer as I finished off my job, 
 
 “ May you rest in peace, my child. May your sins be forgiven. ” 

