#trudy sinclair

She probably just never told the government and assumed small town = they won’t notice or care, lied that it was concrete on the inside or something if anyone asked and prayed nobody would snitch (and subsequently get waxed along with any wayward safety inspector), but it’s funnier to think of it like this:

I almost forgot to post this omg.

Bo was a cute little baby (with a large scar on the back of his head but other than that very normal), he wasn’t more difficult than other babies, cried and laughed in equal amounts, was really the baby his parents had wished for.

Vincent was disfigured, required many expensive surgeries, almost constant medical care, was sickly and weak on top of (or due to) his face, often cried and screamed for hours due to the pain he was in almost constantly (when he wasn’t knocked unconscious by heavy painkillers and sedatives), his parents were tired, disappointed and did not love Vincent in his early years. Bo was their favorite, the one they proudly displayed to the public, the one they cherished. Vincent was left in the care of a nanny, or at the hospital they’d go to when Doc couldn’t care for him.

Then when the twins grew up, this divide slowly shifted. When Bo grew into an unruly child(not unusual for children his age), who’s Terrible Twos stretched on, who was loud and energetic like many other children, who also had tantrums mostly due to the migraines the separation surgery had caused, his parents grew tired. They punished this behavior harshly, and he responded with anger, which led to worse punishments.

All while Vincent was a quiet, shy boy who preferred staying inside and staying still, who besides his medical issues was an “easy” child to care for, who early on showed interest and talent in the same art his mother created. His parents began liking him more, especially his mother, they cared for him more and more while emotionally neglecting Bo.

And eventually, the roles were entirely flipped, and the way the twins remember it, Vincent was always the good twin and Bo had always been the bad twin.

Edit: I also wanna add that the reason I believe this is because the Sinclair parents (or at the very least Trudy, but most likely both) had a very negative view of Vincent’s face. When Bo says that their mom said something along the lines of Vincent’s talent “making up for what God took away”, and the fact that they made their young child cover his face in a mask for his entire life shows this very clearly.

Trudy refills Vincent’s cereal. He’s 2-3 years old and blind in one eye. He doesn’t need more cereal, he just needs his bowl rotated so he can see the cereal that was left over on his blind side. Not that we necessarily know how Vincent communicates without speech, but she hardly gives him time to answer her question about more before she’s refilling the bowl anyways. This is her approach to parenting her boys in general.

There’s no interest in fixing their actual issues. Rather than help Vincent to see what he already has in front of him, she’d rather add more, inadvertently also adding more onto the side he can’t see. At some point, this would just add to the issue. Overcompensation into overwhelm. Bo is brought in for breakfast kicking and screaming and it’s sort of evident why Trudy puts all her love into Vincent to the point of it being suffocating and unhelpful. Sure it could be a simple case of favoritism, but with the aspect of overcompensation specifically, it seems that she wants to balance her guilt over failing to parent one of her sons by pouring more effort than necessary into Vincent. Rather than giving the extra attention to Bo, it’s refilling a non-empty bowl of cereal.

I don’t think that necessarily mean she loves Vincent more. She finds him easier to parent. Fill the bowl whether or not he needs it because that’s easier than unpacking where Bo’s massive emotional outbursts are coming from. It seems more like love-bombing than genuine kindness. He’s “being such a good boy today,” but the implied part is an unsaid comparison to Bo. As twins, and conjoined twins at that, they’re not independent of each other. Vincent’s behavior exists only to contrast Bo’s, from her perspective. “Fix” his needs, and she can fix them both. Hence, preferring just to duct tape Bo to a chair than help him any.

Then Vincent grows up to become her protege, starting in his childhood but lasting until even after Trudy’s death. Over thirty years have passed since they were toddlers in those high chairs, but Bo gives a hint about why Vince got that ‘special privilege’ to not be as physically abused. “She always said that your talent would make up for what God took away from you.” Only, God didn’t take anything. Victor Sinclair doing illegal, unqualified surgery on his babies is why Vincent lost half of his face. Trudy only uses God’s name and religion as a shield for her own guilt about how her boys turned out. But it’s more likely she included Vincent in the wax business because she again, was dumping affection onto him over and over as her strategy.

Otherwise there isn’t as much favoritism between the boys. In their childhood photos, they both play piano, both play pool and baseball, both get to sit at the table with their birthday cake (without highchairs or bindings) and they play on the floor together. It's not entirely divisive between them, though it’s still obvious from which brother she’s slapping across his face and which brother she’s love-bombing which she’d prefer to deal with. Just not which she actually cares for more. Vincent wasn’t somehow spared from abuse in a house like the Sinclair household.

Interestingly, when Bo tells the story of Trudy and Victor, he mentions that once the Doc died, they were alone. Except, there’s at least one version of a prop newspaper stating that Trudy created a wax memorial for Victor. So this is just a false version of events most likely. Sure it could be that a decision changed, but there’s also the fact that, in the guns and ammo store, there’s a sign that says “Trudy’s Town or Wax.” And Bo tells Vincent, “We almost finished what mama started.” She’s also much older than the Trudy we see in the family photos and articles (even with the amount of cigarettes that woman smoked.) Ambrose is confirmed to have been abandoned for a decade, but to be turned into wax, Trudy would’ve had to die sometime between the abandonment of Ambrose and the present. Else she would’ve been properly buried most likely. The plan to fill Ambrose was hers, it’s just Bo that suggests using real humans (according to his apology to Vincent, he takes credit for the idea anyhow.)

Which makes her boys at least in their mid twenties when she died. In an older version of the script, Bo had killed her and Victor, but knowing it would put them all in foster care, that doesn’t quite make sense unless they were older. So the order of events is, Doc dying, the sugar mill closing, Trudy planning to reimagine Ambrose, and then dying herself.

Part 2

_____________________________

Summary: The seventeen month old Cosette had already learned to crawl and comprehend who the people in her little world were, but she hasn’t uttered a single thing yet. Making her parents, Trudy and Victor come up with their own interpretations as to why that is the case. Until one day, the baby girl finally uttered something they did not expect at the dinner table.

[Pressumed art by CM - found on Pinterest]

On the living room floor, a seventeen-month-old Cosette wore a soft pastel onesie—short hair that is pigtails braided with the ends having bows—had her attention on her solitary play. Tiny hands going in circles on a chatter phone, its facial features were reminiscent of a clown, having the sounds of a doorbell, yet she offers no words in return. She communicates through expressive eyes that flicker with curiosity, confused gurgles, and the occasional sharp cry—whenever something was amiss. One would think that it was nice not to have a troublesome baby. However, experienced people, such as parents, would know that this quietness was not typical of her age.

Across the room, Victor sits on the couch, his gaze drifting from the worn pages of The Divided Self: An Existential Study in Sanity & Madness to his daughter. Her quietude had become a source of increasing whispers between Victor and Trudy. Compared to his wife, he was overthinking it. He wasn't worried but more interested in solving the puzzle. A furrow deepening between his brows with each passing day. He spent hours going back to his mental studies, his gaze fixated on articles and forums, crossing out every possibility he knew was far stretched. He noticed the way the girl interacted – or didn’t interact – with the world around her. Her gaze often seemed unfocused, lost in some internal world. She didn’t always respond to her name, and her playful interactions were often fleeting, sometimes bordering on aloofness. The possibility of autism wasn't off the table. It didn't matter if the signs were little. He kept them on his whiteboard. He had brought it up several times with Trudy, who, while understood that mental disorders were a thing, absolutely refused to think that her little angel had something wrong with her. Instead, she seemed to hold onto the hope that perhaps the lass was just a slow learner. Trudy would brush back her blond hair with her fingers, a tired yet laid-back assurance playing on her lips, reminded Victor that “every child develops at their own pace.” She would cite her own childhood, saying that she had been a quiet baby as well, only starting to talk properly when she was around two years old.

Despite the circumstances, Trudy had noticed that there was one person who consistently made Cosette express different emotions. That person is the youngest brother, six-year-old Lester. Lester, with his boundless energy and earnest attempts at slapstick humour, had a peculiar gift for extracting giggles and sweet smiles from his reserved little sister. He would make silly faces, pull funny voices, or even have her piggy ride back him when she refused to go to places. These moments, though fleeting, were precious, reminding Trudy that, despite Cosette's odd behaviour, wasn’t devoid of connection, of joy, of comprehension. She would often find herself watching their interactions with a sense of relief, a reminder that she was, in fact, a very happy little girl.

Bo and Vincent were less involved in the day-to-day care of their youngest sibling, their lives consumed by the usual daily activities that were either forced upon them, or that they wanted to be left alone for a while. While they found the little angel endearing in her own quiet way, they were often distracted by their own concerns. When they would be with her, however, they would do pursuits that they enjoyed.

Vincent would often have his sister help him out with an art project, and by helping, it was with the basic minimal things. Getting non-sharp items, picking options, and using her hands for a messy background canvas. Cosette loved playing with paint, and although he would like to keep his limited supply useful to his artistic venture. He always did manage to find a way to make them into toys for her with his leftovers. One of his ideas was putting any colour she wanted onto a canvas randomly, putting the canvas into a plastic bag, to then let her pat and tap the thing until she got bored. It was baby art. Nonetheless, some of it was worth keeping. Especially when his mother told him to make them into alphabets each time to spell out Cosette's name using painter tape. Vincent plans on making a much more improved version in the future as a nameplate since he realised that it wouldn't exactly fit on her bedroom door. At times, Vincent wondered if his baby sister would find her passion within the creative territory. He wouldn't be astonished if she did, despite the lingering fear that someday, any of his siblings could replace him as Trudy’s successor. He would actually be more happy that somebody he hold dear have an interest in aesthete. It meant he could share his passion and create something wonderful with them one day. Maybe the outcome wouldn't be as horrible as he originally thought it would be.

When Bo wasn't content to only give her a quick pat on the head before disappearing back upstairs to their room. He would take her to places, mostly to the House of Wax, but he made sure it wasn't ever boring for the both of them. Their parents still didn't trust Bo to take good care of her, yet sometimes they didn't have a choice because they were too busy to keep an eye on her. And as much as they distrusted Bo, he somehow was a better option than Lester. Who would regularly take her to the woods, let's just say the adults did not enjoy seeing their fragile daughter all soiled and stinky. The one activity Cosette seemed to enjoy much more than playing with his toy cars, was having Bo play the piano for her. Beaurgard wasn't an expert by any means, including the fact that sometimes he would slip up when changing keys in a fast paced composition, but he is improving, and is a lot more talented in that area compared to the other children in Ambrose. It's a shame he never does truly enjoy it though, beyond showing off his abilities. Cosette would always clap her hands in the end for satisfactory reasons... also because she saw it happening at the end of The Cat Concerto episode. Perhaps that's why she enjoyed the piano so much. It did make the most logical sense.

When it came to the twin's concerns, they weren’t particularly worried. They acknowledged that their youngest sister was a little ‘weird,’ but that was what made her unique. Cosette was, after all, still a baby, and those tiny creatures can't even comprehend morality yet. So they don't have any expectations for her, as of now that is. They did however find themselves silently annoyed with how much attention she got from their parents, especially Trudy, which made them start to realise how they were once the centre of their parents’ universe, albeit in a very dissimilar ways.

The family’s dynamics seemed to coalesce each evening during dinner. The family gathered around the large, cheap metal table, each member of the family settling into their usual place. Victor sat at the head, his gaze often drifting to the baby seated in her high chair beside Trudy. He would watch her, meticulously searching for some kind of improvement, any changes in behaviour. On the other hand, Trudy would do her best to try and interact with her daughter. She would present different foods to her, speaking to her gently, hoping for any kind of response. Lester would sit on the opposite side of his father, often encouraging her or speak about his day, noticing how she would simply stare at him in response, not exactly engaged, more like 'oh he's talking'. Bo would eat his meal in silence, occasionally exchanging a look with his twin on his left. Beaurgard only misbehaved when something went wrong. He wasn't that much of a chatoic storm otherwise. He very much liked to avoid his own high chair during dinner. Vincent wouldn't attempt to get Trudy’s attention during this time. He was only focused on filling his stomach in peace. He already did get most of it after all, and not that he would ever say it out loud, not the he could anyway. But every so often, his mother could be... too much. He wants to breathe, not focusing on the sounds of the environment or worry if he did something wrong. Just staying on his own bubble. Sleep in his awakened form if he could.

The atmosphere at the dinner table was thick with a familiar blend of the strange topics. Victor had brought up the discussions on Trudy’s progress, his voice low, his gaze fixed on the baby as she munched on a piece of boiled broccoli. Trudy, unable to meet his gaze, busied herself with mumbling to Cosette about closing her mouth when eating before responding to her husband. Bo and Vincent had tuned out the conversation – they had heard similar discussions too many times in the past few weeks. The older twin grumbled quietly to himself as he realised that his mashed potatoes didn't have a significant amount of salt he needed to taste it.

Noticing the salt cellar nearby, Bo leaned forward and whispered, “Can you pass the salt, Les?” Without thinking, Lester grabbed the shaker and handed it over with his usual clumsy enthusiasm. But neither boys noticed the cap had come slightly loose. A small cascade of salt puffed across the table like a miniature snowfall. Victor’s fork clattered down. “Lord have mercy, how many times I gotta tell y'all to be careful with ever'thang!? Now look at this here mess!” He snapped, eyes flashing with anger. The boys hesitated, trying to explain it was an accident that Lester didn’t mean to, that the cap must’ve been loose—but their words tangled in the rising tension. Then, from the high chair, a tiny voice—clear, soft, yet distinctive—broke through the silence. “S-Sowwy,” said Cosette clumsily in a stutter like tone. Looking at the spilt salt with dejected, solemn eyes.

The room fell silent as all members of the family were frozen, barely daring to breathe. Victor looked at her as though he had never seen her before, his countenance a mix of shock and relief. It did not take long before Trudy gave her daughter a lot of praise for finally speaking and reassuring her that it wasn't her fault. She felt a surge of thankfulness, as though a burden had been removed from her chest. Although Lester was still a bit frightened by the event, he didn’t think twice about the outcome, whether his sister knew it or not. She had saved both of them from a stern punishment. When his mother was done coddling Cosette, he carefully unbuckled her from the baby chair, his hands gentle as he scooped her up, cradling her close to his chest. Her small body felt impossibly light in his arms. The weight of her first word was something he was going to treasure forever. He had a feeling that it wouldn't vanish as easily as his other memories that he didn't mind stuck around.

The twins, in comparison, who looked at each other with wide eyes, didn't know how to react to the situation. Don't get it twisted, Bo was relieved from not receiving anything from his father, yet just because something interrupted the event didn't mean it was over. It just delayed it, changed the punishment to something less grating. And although it isn't ideal, he is grateful, Vincent could tell his twin was grateful with the way his body stopped tensing in a cat-like manner. If Vincent could, he would have reached out and held his brothers hand. Comforting him the same way he would have when they were in their mother's womb. Lately, however, Vincent has been observing how Bo acts with touch, and it's not exactly positive. It's easier with him because they are twins, and there is this familiar connection that a family member can't provide with. In general, though, one bad way of approaching Bo can have him punch you in defence, or instinctual way. Like a wounded animal hissing in rage rather than fright. So instead of reaching out like how a normal individual would be doing, Vincent locked eyes with Bo for confirmation before resuming eating his meal, with his leg reaching out for his. Wrapping his right foot behind Bo's left, in a very attentive manner, neither saying anything as Bo eventually resumed to eating his dinner. Sniffing a bit so that only Vincent could hear him. The twins were happy that their sister spoke for the first time, and when they were alone, they were going to teach her to hopeful say their name next.

Victor had relaxed a while ago. The worry lines around his eyes softened, letting himself enjoy the moment. For somebody quick to anger, he was more controlled than his sons. Flipping emotions such as a switch for a light bulb. He got up to wipe the small salt mountain with a paper towel as he decided to throw it away in the trash. Not wanting the table bacteria in any sort of food consumption. He told the twins to retire to their room earlier than usual when they're done with eating. He gave Lester the job to take care of her sister for the night, wanting Trudy to actually rest for the day. Knowing that her work day has been far, much worse, then she let's on. Lester did not oppose his words and immediately took Cosette to the living room to watch some Winnie the Pooh with him. Knowing his baby sister liked the clueless bear a lot.

The man of the house watched his two children swiftly leave the kitchen as he glanced at his woman for a second before moving towards her, Trudy touched her temple for a moment, to then stop once she felt Victor’s hands applying light to medium pressure on her head with his fingertips. She let out a shuddering breath as he delivering slow, gentle strokes on her head and work up to light circular motions that go across the head.

"Quit yer smokin' tonight, darlin', just let me take care of ya. You're already fixin' to ruin that body of yours as it is." He said in an unsual hushed tone that was meant to calm her nerves. Trudy lazily opened her eyes as she scoffed in amusement, a light smirk on her lips. "I ain't fixin' to quit clean, but I'm a-stoppin' this time, might be forever if y'all keep pilin' it on me." She teased him with a knowing view in her eyesight, Victor raised an eyebrow at that, letting his fingers go through her hair in soothing means. "I'll mull it over when we get to bed, I am too tired for anything, and don't you dare tell me you aren't tired, I see them eyelids of yours a-droopin'." Trudy had only opened her mouth for one second, didn't have a chance to breathe through it. Her husband had a point, and she shrugged her shoulders in response. She thinks the better option for tonight would be cuddles anyway. She didn't feel like arguing for once. She could also fix the dishes in the morning if Victor didn't do them. All she cared about in the moment was getting her deserved loving attention.

So this took me waaaay longer than i thought it would. oops.

Blood On Our Hands is a twoshot prequel to my upcoming House of Wax fanfic, titled Crawlin' Back to You. In this 'verse, Trudy is the one who starts killing people and turning them to wax sculptures, and Blood On Our Hands covers how Daisy gets involved in this, as well as why she spends six years away from Ambrose.

Also I struggled a lot with Trudy's dialogue so if it sucks I apologize lol.

----

To say that the town of Ambrose, Louisiana, was small would certainly be an understatement. "Tiny" would be a more accurate descriptor. Perhaps "modest" or "unpretentious", if you were trying to be polite.

"Insignificant" or "piddling" if you weren't. Not that it's residents would care about the opinions of outsiders, though. Ambrose was what it was, take it or leave it. To them it was home and most, when given the choice, would take it over the larger towns or cities any day of the week.

Not only was Ambrose small, it was also isolated. You might be able to find it on a county map, depending on when and where the map was printed. But the town was completely overlooked by larger state maps, not to mention the national ones. Trudy's Wax Museum made it a little easier for tourists to find, but not by much. And as much as the townspeople appreciated the extra money brought in by said tourists, many were glad the town didn't have to deal with too many of them. They had always been a private community, one might even say secretive, and didn't want strangers poking around where they don't belong. No doubt many tourists had noticed the open stares, sometimes by adults and definitely by the children, whenever they drove into town. This was not a place used to seeing strangers. Still, it didn't seem to bother them that much. Newspaper and magazine articles always described the town as "quaint" and "charming".

The downside of course, when living in a town as small and isolated as Ambrose, is that there wasn't really much to do.

Resident's would get up in the morning, go to work or school, come home, have dinner, and watch tv until they went to bed and did it all again the next day. When it came to entertainment you could visit the local movie theater that was at least six months, if not more, behind the ones in the city. Or you could spend a few hours at the bowling alley that still didn't have automatic pin setting. If you were hungry and didn't feel like cooking for yourself you could grab a bite at the town diner that hadn't changed it's menu since 1972. There was also a library, a bar, a general store, and a handful of small businesses that all operated in much the same way. Life in Ambrose moved slowly, so slow it often seemed to be stuck in time, and when things moved that slow it was incredibly easy to get bored. So when they had nothing better to do, people fell back onto the favorite pastime of all small towns.

Gossip.

In a town where there wasn't much to do, you'd think there wouldn't be much to talk about either, but the local busybodies always managed to find something. There was little gossip, some slight or breech of manners that would set people talking for a few days at most, until it was forgotten when the next thing came along. There was the boring, everyday gossip about lazy spouses, ungrateful children, who was gaining weight and who missed church on Sunday morning. And then there was the big gossip. Stories that people talked about for so long they found their way into the very lore of the town itself.

And the townspeople of Ambrose, whether they were the gossiping sort or not, would certainly be talking about Helen Landry's funeral for some time to come. Though perhaps not for the reason you'd expect.

It wasn't the dress her daughter-in-law chose for her to be buried in that would stick in their minds, or the array of flowers adorning the church sanctuary (although both were lovely). Nor was it Father Paul's stirring eulogy for the dearly departed (hardly a dry eye could be found amongst the congregation). And it wasn't the fact that the young Landry girl spent more time at both the service and the following wake with the Sinclair brothers than she did with her own family (frowned upon for sure but unsurprising, those children stuck to each other like ticks on a dog).

Make no mistake, these were sure to be talked about and gossiped over as well. but what really stayed in their collective memory was the fact that Helen Marie Landry held the distinct honor of being the last person in Ambrose to be embalmed at the Boudreaux family funeral home.

The Boudreaux family had been the town undertakers practically since the first settlers arrived, and after his father died in the mid-70's Eli Boudreaux had every intention of keeping the tradition going. Unfortunately the town's population was not what it used to be, and more people leaving meant fewer people dying here. Eventually it got to the point where there simply weren't enough people dying in Ambrose for him to keep the family business afloat. Eli made sure to keep the funeral home open long enough to take care of Helen's earthly remains as a personal favor to her, seeing as she had been such a dear friend to his family over the years. But once that was taken care of, he saw no other option but to close down the business and move his family elsewhere in hopes of a more steady income. No matter how much it pained him to do so.

Most would not begrudge him this and those few who did kept it to themselves, but it still left everyone in quite a bind. Not only was the nearest funeral home over 50 miles away in Coopersville, but practically no one in Ambrose could even begin to afford what they wanted for the most basic services. This was when Trudy Sinclair stepped in with a rather unorthodox solution to their problem.

Instead of embalming, she offered to encase the bodies of the town's dearly departed in wax.

Naturally, folks were more than a bit hesitant. Ambrose was a place very much set in it's ways, especially when it came to matters as delicate as this. But Trudy persisted, insisting that the wax was much more natural than embalming, less invasive and therefore much more dignified. She also charged half of what even their own small town funeral home had. This was the final nail in the proverbial coffin that convinced the town of Ambrose to see things her way.

Not that anyone who knew her was surprised. Trudy Sinclair always did have a knack for getting her own way.

Oh, Daisy's mother had ranted and raved to high heaven when this happened. She called it wrong, disturbing, even morbid. Especially since her own daughter "insisted" on spending so much of her time either in the wax museum or with the Sinclair family in their home, all of whom she had deeply disliked from the beginning.

"There's just something...off about those people." she would say with an almost haughty tone. "Something not right with that whole family."

She could never say exactly what it was, of course. But Mary Landry had her theories. No legitimate reason to justify keeping her daughter away from them however, which Daisy was immensely thankful for. When Trudy eventually offered Daisy a part-time job at the wax museum on afternoons and weekends, her mother had made Trudy promise several times that her thirteen year old daughter would have nothing to do with the dead bodies. And she had promised, assuring Mrs. Landry that Daisy would only be cleaning, selling tickets, and helping with the sculptures.

Of course, that would turn out to be a lie.

It was a rainy afternoon in mid-October of that same year, only a few months after she and Vincent had started dating, that Daisy Landry's childhood came to an abrupt end. Vincent had been acting strange since the moment she ducked into the museum that day, damp from the sudden rainstorm that struck just as she was walking up the hill. He was stiff, anxious, and could barely meet her eyes. He was also wearing his mask, which was odd considering the museum was closed today and she and his mother were the only other people in the building. His behavior was definitely unusual, and it worried Daisy.

"Mama said to bring you downstairs as soon as you get here." he rasped out before taking her hand and leading her through the museum towards the door to Trudy's basement workshop. Still concerned, Daisy tried to ask silently what was wrong by tapping her question out in morse code against Vincent's palm.

The surgery that had removed Vincent's face from the back of Bo's head had damaged the boy's mouth and vocal cords, and while he was able to talk it would start to hurt if he did it for too long. So to make things a little easier for him the children learned other means of communication, like sign language and morse code. The fact that this made it easier for them to have secret conversations was just a bonus. But instead of replying to her, Vincent just shook his head and gripped her hand more firmly in his own. His palm was clammy as they began their descent into the basement.

Daisy had been down here often enough over the years to know when Trudy had the vat of wax boiling just by feeling the temperature increase. The air grew hot and thick as they descended the stairs and she could no longer tell if it was rain water or sweat running down between her shoulder blades as they reached the bottom step. Rounding the corner into the main room of the workshop, Daisy found herself stopping short at the sight of someone lying motionless on Trudy's work table. An older man, naked except for a towel draped across his privates and almost completely hairless. Trudy was on the other side of the table, using an old straight razor to shave the last remaining stubble from his cheek.

Barely four months ago she had heard with her own ears Trudy promising her mother that Daisy would have nothing to do with this side of the business. Although it wouldn't be the first time that Trudy Sinclair looked Mary Landry in the eye and lied through her teeth. Granted those lies were usually about smaller things, like how often Victor was blackout drunk while Daisy was under their roof (too often) or how much Daisy was relied upon to take care of little Lester (too much). But this was different. Bo and Vincent helping was one thing, they were fifteen now and that was how old Eli Boudreaux had been when he started helping his father at the funeral home. Still, Trudy had never been one to shelter or coddle her children. And she had said more than once that Daisy was like part of the family. A small sense of pride began to creep in at the idea that Trudy thought she was old enough to help with something this important.

However, that feeling quicky fades back into confusion as Daisy realizes she doesn't know who this man is. Ambrose was a small enough town that everyone truly did know who everyone else was, and she'd never seen his face before. Perhaps he was an out of town relative of someone who lived there and couldn't afford the services of a traditional funeral home? But she was sure that she still would have heard about it. The way some people in this town liked to gossip (her own mother included), news spread so fast that even the young children would have heard it before their Mama's had even started making dinner. Daisy was just about to speak up when a pained groan escaped the man lying in front of her.

He was still alive.

Daisy managed to stifle a yelp, just barely, but her dark eyes must have looked like saucers when she whipped her head toward Trudy. Calm as could be, the blonde woman walked around the table with a placating smile and put a hand on her shoulder that was meant to be comforting, but did little to ease the anxiety coursing through her body.

"It's all right dear, there's nothing to be afraid of." Trudy said in a low, soothing voice. "This is our new friend, Joe. He's here to help us."

"Help us?" Daisy asked quietly, almost at a whisper. Trudy nodded, then explained that Joe was a drifter she had met last evening, thumbing for a ride on the highway. Having spent the majority of her time since the age of five with the Sinclair family, Daisy knew all too well Trudy's opinions on men like Joe. "No good lazy drunks" and "a drain on our tax dollars" being among her favorite descriptors. Both, along with several other typical jabs, made their appearance as Trudy relayed this man's story to the young teens in front of her.

"Joe has wasted the the precious gift of life that our Lord gave him." She continued. "But here with us, he'll find a new purpose. He wont be a waste anymore."

The man on the table began to groan again, his fingers twitching and head slowly moving from side to side before his gaze landed on Daisy and Vincent. His jaw moved and his Adam's Apple bobbed like he was trying to speak, but no words came out. Only pitiful grunts and moans. From a nearby tray, Trudy retrieved a large syringe and Daisy felt her stomach drop. The needle glinted wickedly in the candle light as a cold sweat broke out across her skin.

"This is going to send our new friend home to Jesus." Trudy said calmly, as if she were talking about going on a Sunday drive and not ending a man's life. "No pain," she continued. "No struggle, he'll simply drift away. Then we'll get him ready to join our friends upstairs, and Joe will be adored as a beautiful work of art for years to come."

A small voice in the back of Daisy's mind, probably much smaller than it should have been, screamed at her to do something. Speak up, grab the syringe, run screaming from the museum and straight to the town sheriff-anything to try and stop what was about to happen.

Do something.

Do something.

DO SOMETHING!!!

But she didn't. An innocent man's life was on the line and Daisy Landry did...absolutely nothing.

Her heartbeat pounded in her ears as that little voice in her mind continued to scream to no avail. Mind and body seemed disconnected, all communication severed as Trudy turned back to the man lying prostrate on her work table. Daisy couldn't manage so much as a twitch of her fingers or a wiggle of her toes. Normal bodily reflexes like blinking and breathing were monumental tasks, moving was impossible. It was as if Daisy herself had become one of Trudy's wax figures, unable to do anything but stand where she'd been placed and watch the world go by around her.

Joe's pleading, terrified eyes never left hers; even as the needle slid into his arm. Daisy's eyes stayed fixed on his as well, unable to look away even as the light behind them began to fade. Even after he exhaled his final breath she still couldn't make herself look away. She stared so long her eyesight began to blur, and she didn't even notice that she had been crying until she felt Vincent's hand gently brush the tears from her cheeks. This contact seemed to break the spell her body had been under, and Daisy found herself able to move again as she gladly shifted her focus away from the body on the table. The fear and anxiety that had immobilized her moments before began to fade as Daisy leaned into the familiar and grounding comfort of Vincent's hands cradling her face. The screaming in the back of her mind became blissful silence and for a moment, her whole world shrinking down to the boy standing in front of her. She had almost forgotten what just happened when she felt Trudy's hand return to her shoulder. Vincent's hands promptly left her face as they both turned their attention to his mother, still smiling serenely at them.

"Are you alright, dear?" Trudy asked, and Daisy nodded in the affirmative. Despite what she may have actually been feeling, she still had the presence of mind to know that it was best to tell Trudy what she wanted to hear. The hand resting on her shoulder moved to stroke her hair as Trudy continued to speak.

"I know what you just saw was...upsetting, but it really was for the best." Trudy's voice was now almost saccarine in its sweetness. Daisy may have been young, but she wasn't naive. She'd known Trudy Sinclair for most of her life, learned her moods and general disposition and how to act accordingly to stay on her good side. Daisy loved Trudy like a second mother despite this, but she knew the woman was many things and sweet wasn't one of them. Any sort of sweetness she put on was a mask of manipulation to easily get what she wanted. To get others to see things her way. Daisy knew, and she still went along with it.

"I won't be around forever, you know." Trudy said, petting Daisy's hair like one would a cat curled in their lap. "Vincent is going to be responsible for this museum once I'm gone, and he'll need a lot of help from you. This place is my life's work, and I wan't to be sure the two of you have everything you need to make it something truly special."

"How?" Daisy managed to choke out, barely louder than a whisper.

"You'll see," Trudy said with a determined gleam in her eye. "Once Vincent and I fix our new friend. He'll look so much better than the regular sculptures. So much more real."

She was going to turn Joe...into a wax sculpture? Daisy looked at Joe, his flat, dead eyes still fixed on her. HIs face still twisted in fear, still begging the child in front of him for help. But what could she have done? Even if she'd been able to move, what choice did she really have? It was a long way from the basement workshop to the front door of the museum, realistically could she have made it if she tried to run? Vincent wasn't as strong and athletic as Bo, but he was stronger than her. Older by two years and already starting to grow taller than she was. He could have, and would have, caught her easily if his mother told him to.

Daisy didn't fear Vincent or Bo, but their devotion to their mother was unshakeable. She didn't want to imagine what Trudy could convince her boys to do. Even if she could realistically make it out, what then? Run to the police station and tell the sheriff that Trudy Sinclair was killing people and using their bodies to fill her wax museum? Would anyone believe her?

Did she even want to?

There were times, more than she could count, that Daisy felt more at home with the Sinclair's than she did with her own family. She loved her parents like any child would and assumed they loved her too, but she'd never really felt connected with them like most families would. They took care of her, kept her fed and clothed and housed, but she'd be lying if she said it didn't feel like they were just doing a job. Most days she felt no closer to them than she did her teachers at school.

Nana Landry had been different though. The two of them had connected, they understood each other, being with Nana Landry felt like being with family. But she was gone now, dead and buried in the churchyard next to her husband and eldest son. Without her, Daisy felt like Trudy and her boys were the only real family she had, and even though she knew that Trudy's actions here were wrong, not to mention extremely illegal, she also knew that she didn't have it in her to betray them. If this secret got out, Trudy would be sent to jail. Maybe even executed. And without her the boys would be left with Doc Sinclair if he didn't already know, and if he did then they would get shipped off to foster homes, most likely separated. (she honestly didn't know which outcome would be worse) And who knew when or even if she'd see them again after that. This thought nearly sent her into a panic. As twisted as it was, Daisy knew that losing the people she loved most scared her more than being an accessory to murder.

Daisy turned her attention back to Trudy, who looked as if she had already read Daisy's mind and knew that she had won.

"It can be a little scary to watch, at first." Trudy said. "But it will get easier, just give it time. All you have to do is trust me, alright?"

Daisy nodded again, not completely convinced but she did trust the woman in front if her despite everything, and she wanted desperately for her to be right. Holding onto that want felt like the only thing keeping her from going crazy.

"Good." Trudy continued. "You're a good girl, Daisy. And we may not share blood but you're considered part of this family. Now, good girls don't betray their families, do they?"

Daisy shook her head.

"Of course they don't." Trudy said, her manicured hand feeling less like a hand and more like a claw as it curled once again around Daisy's narrow shoulder. "That means I can rely on you, can't I? To keep our little family secret, and help me turn our dear wax museum into something truly special?"

This time Daisy nodded, her fear and anxiety beginning to fade. Perhaps it would get easier. If she gave it time, like Trudy said. If she was patient. Even at thirteen, Daisy understood that her own sense of morality was a bit more...skewed than most. More often than not her priority had been the safety and wellbeing of herself and the Sinclair brothers, by whatever means she'd been capable of. Daisy had lied, cheated, used more than a few of Trudy's tricks to manipulate adults in her efforts to keep them all (but mostly Bo) out of trouble. Her parent's had always wondered why their daughter stuck so closely with those "odd" neighbor boys and never made any other friends, especially her mother, who thought it unnatural that a girl didn't have at least one other female friend. She told them that the other kids were always bullying Vincent because of his face and she wasn't interested in being friends with people like that. And that was at least half true, although what she'd said and done to keep the boys out of trouble hadn't exactly made her popular with the other kids. Not that Daisy cared one way or the other, she had her boys and that was enough. Perhaps it was even enough for her to accept this.

"Yes." Daisy replied, making her choice.

"Yes...?" Trudy asked, face becoming serious as she raised an eye brow expectantly. Daisy swallowed, almost nervously, and cleared her throat before speaking again.

"Yes, Mama."

Trudy smiled, bringing both hands to gently cup her face.