"A-a-a-a-h..." Lele nodded the same way a person, who heard a joke and understood the punchline fifteen minutes later. "Well, in my experience there are more effective ways of getting rid of your relatives than killing them. Just saying," she shrugged, first, wondering, what had the son done to make his dad want to kill him, followed by a mental apology to the fictional victim and thinking that the father must have been a psychopath. And then she wondered, if Larkspur, who had hated most people, had ever thought of killing her? Maybe. Or not. The very essence of her step-mother was to have people around her to cater for her needs. 

"But impracticality and wastefulness of such a decision is truly scary," she decided to give him some credit for the "horror" story. "A living son can at least bring him food. A dead son can only disturb his sleep. And perhaps that was the catalyst of the murder in the first place. Yeah - why did he kill his son?" she asked. 

"Okay, work on that story and try to scare the wits of this old brain-mass another time," Lele noted, then got to her feet, yawned and stretched. They had not talked for a very long time, but it definitely felt like it. "Want to raid some caches?" she asked. "I am starving," she explained. "Under different circumstances I would ask you to tell me a tasty story, but unfortunately this shell has become super pragmatic in old age," she said. "Either proper fuel or nothing at all," and then a nap. Definitely a nap. Because socializing was a hard work.