Read Online A Shred of Truth by Eric Wilson - Free Book Online

lost love. The contents of the bag in my hand demanded more exploration. Still muddled by a kiss and the events of the last twenty minutes, my mind was a blur.

9
    I coasted through the front gates and past the guard post. I turned onto Page Road, took a left onto Belle Meade, where frolickers still spilled from the Iroquois Steeplechase, then headed into town on Harding Pike.
    Outside the windshield, a dragonfly buzzed along, iridescent, staying a foot or so ahead of my Civic. I watched it for a while until for some reason it struck me funny, and I laughed, bleeding off the past hour’s overload of adrenaline.
    On the seat beside me, the felt bag waited.
    I pulled into Elmington Park before the I-440 overpass and killed the engine. Three boys in baggy shorts kicked a soccer ball and laughed as a mom watched from a picnic table, her hand rocking a baby carrier beside her. I recalled the park where my mom had taught me how to swing. Those twinkling eyes when she tousled my hair.
    Six years compacted into one corner of my memory. So little to hold on to.
    I traced the felt bag with my fingers, realizing its contents could shake things up all over again. Despite promises to my brother, there might be more trouble ahead.
    A chance I’d have to take.
    I removed the Fauxbergé from the bag. The jewel on the sphere’s top caught my eye once more, and I twisted it, hearing the soft click of a lockopening. The egg’s upper third fell open on a golden hinge to reveal a hollow space inside.
    A bullet casing rested on the velvet lining.
    What in the …
    When I tipped the jeweled egg like a tiny teapot, the tarnished shell rolled into my palm, and I noticed a slip of paper tucked inside it. What if I ignored the note? I could just refuse to play this cat-and-mouse game.
    But I knew better. I had to do this for Johnny:
for the sake of your loved ones
 …
    And Felicia.
    Whether innocent or involved, Felicia Daly was my best link to the culprit. I’d manhandled her, allowing the resentments of our breakup to take over, and now she was gone. I should’ve run after her. For her sake and mine. Of course, the guard in the hallway had put a stop to my meager attempt.
    Against my skin, the casing was warm. I tried to extract the paper, but it was furled and wedged in at an angle. I plucked at it. Attempted to grip it with my short fingernails. I pinned the sheet against the metal and began edging it out, millimeter by millimeter, until it popped free into my hand, and I spread it open on my leg.
    Chop, chop, Aramis. Here’s a piece of your mother’s past. “Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?” Yes, by falling forward before the trigger was pulled, she cheated the grave. If you help me, you’ll get to see her again and earn your way back into our family circle. Perhaps you should give me a ring.
    “Sure,” I grumbled. “It’d help if you left me a number.”
    Our family circle? Who did he think he was? And this continued twistingof scriptures seemed an intentional affront against the respect my mother had shown for the Good Book.
    Obvious lies. I wasn’t falling for any false hopes.
    Could my dad be responsible? He seemed as unlikely as Felicia.
    I studied the cartridge’s tarnished brass, found myself reliving the moment when the gun had exploded and sent my mom reeling forward. An earlier shot in the thigh had brought her to her knees, and she’d cried out, black hair clinging to her cheeks. Then … she was toppling, falling, vanishing beneath the river’s dark currents.
    I have no memory of any blood. Or an impact wound. Her body was never recovered from the water. From previous discussions with Meade, I knew most police departments destroyed evidence long before two decades had passed. What were the chances of this casing being the one from that Oregon riverbank?
    Surely it wasn’t possible she had survived, was it? What if she …
    No! Stop!
    I stiffened in the driver’s seat. “She was