Trophies Read Free Page B

His grin turned conspiratorial. "I could picture you
as Puck."
    I turned back in time to watch the mother,
her brooch flashing sunlight, tuck the little girl against her
shoulder. But the toddler twisted on her secure perch. Blue eyes
glared at me from beneath a mop of blond curls, and suddenly her
tongue shot out.
    Nope, that one wasn't about to cry. This time
I turned my back. Beyond Hardenbrook's black gown the carved front
doors stood open, and beyond them stretched a dim interior that
seemed to vanish into some intellectual distance. William, I knew,
had walked through those doors and strode out again even more
perfect than when he'd entered.
    I looked back up at Hardenbrook. "Bottom," I
said.
    His eyebrows spiked up. "Beg pardon?"
    I gathered my backpack and slung one strap
over my shoulder. "The character Bottom. I can picture myself in
that role."
    His smile collapsed. I strode past him into
Corwald without looking back.
    It was time to get the next seven years over
with.
     

Chapter Two
    current time
    I couldn't get rid of the memory of Aunt
Edith, grey and staring, vanishing beneath the zipper of that body
bag.
    "Patty, this can't be real."
    "Don't cry, whatever you do. I can't bear
it." She tightened her grip on the steering wheel. "You know, I
left the gallery early last night. If I'd stayed, perhaps I might
have been able to—" Her voice died away and she only mouthed the
final words: do something.
    I fought a shudder. Against this physical
reaction, I lost. "No. Take it from a professional. It's not
likely."
    We were on our way to Patricia's place, which
was actually Aunt Edith's house and now, once past probate, would
be mine. Patty had driven me to my waterfront condo — with her
driving, an experience to be neither missed nor repeated — but she
insisted I pack a bag and stay with her a few nights. She didn't
say, until she could be certain I was sane, but her meaning was
clear enough.
    At my condo, only a slight widening of her
eyes had commented on the old 9mm Walther P-38 I'd slid into a
hidden waistband holster. She didn't like guns and refused to touch
one, but I felt too paranoid now to forego carrying even for her.
I'd steeled myself then for her sniping, one of the less fortunate
aspects of our relationship, and her white-knuckled grip on the
steering wheel and lowering chin were bad signs. Perhaps I should
give in and learn to drive myself. Granted, I'd perform no better
after such a shock and with my brain, likely worse.
    I'd mentioned the PTSD diagnosis to Patty
when I'd received it but avoided discussing the topic in any depth.
Ever since we'd been teenagers and summer buddies, I'd tried to put
up a good front for her, hoping she wouldn't believe my lousy
family reputation. For the past year that cover-up had extended to
camouflaging my newly-acquired craziness, as well. But it was
starting to appear I'd blown that cover and, judging from her
occasional sideways glare, that avoidance was about to cost me.
    "All right," she said finally. "All right, I
should have expected something like that. You're male, you're
young, you're loaded with testosterone, you—"
    "Patty," I said, "what in the hell are you
talking about?"
    Another sideways glare and it was scathing,
stirring the embers of my forcibly banked combativeness. The
family's signature green eyes coupled with her sleek grace made
Patricia look like a feral cat, particularly in this mood. I
supposed I should be flattered; despite her genetics and feline
appearance, she was mousy as her hair and wouldn't fight with
anyone except me. "I thought you were going to hit that detective,"
she said.
    No, she still didn't understand, which was
something of a relief. I unholstered my cell phone and scrolled
through contacts. "When he asked me my whereabouts for the previous
evening, I nearly did." My vital signs had stabilized, my pulse no
longer pounded in my ears, but the odds I was sufficiently stable
for this conversation were slim to none. "Hang