Read Online Angels Mark (The Serena Wilcox Mysteries Dystopian Thriller Trilogy) by Natalie Buske Thomas - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Natalie Buske Thomas
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just a very smart girl who worked her way up, up, up, -- up and out of her hometown of Warsaw, Indiana -- until one day important people tapped her to solve the world's worst problems in modern day history.
Her run-in with Paul had conjured up memories of Warsaw; walking after school to the library, waiting for her father to pick her up after work; going to Pizza King after a basketball game and giving her best friend a kick under the table to signal it was time to get away from her annoying date; buying a new dress to wear to the Snowball; feeling left out when kids told stories of cow-tipping and barn parties, even though she didn’t really want to be the kind of girl who got invited to the secret parties where alcohol, and other things, flowed freely; riding with her boyfriend through the corn fields; swimming at Winona Lake and getting stuck in the seaweed.
Her mind rested on the Winona Lake story for a few minutes. When she had shouted for help, her father told her to relax, don’t panic, relax. She did, and the seaweed fell away, drifting around her in a swirl of harmless green gunk. She easily swam back to the pier. Life is like swimming in seaweed, she mused.
She was a long way from Warsaw, where basketball was not a mere game or sport, but something as revered as a church service. She had never quite understood the love of basketball, nor did she ever really become a Hoosier – her family moved to Warsaw the summer before she entered fourth grade – but she grew up well there. Watching “brat pack” movies with her friends, attending both proms, tying for first place in the high school talent show, making the honor roll, even taking special classes for “gifted and talented”.
Yes, she was still that girl, the charmed fairy princess, but her ball of light was fast dimming. She couldn't remember the last time she had really looked at her face in the mirror, beyond the face to the spirit within. She saw only what she needed to see to pull herself together each day; the blemishes to conceal, the curve of her lips to paint, the uneven complexion to smooth, the new lines on her face to mask.
In her reflection, her dark eyes stared back at her, awaiting the insertion of contact lenses and the framing of her lids with makeup, but there was no gleam, no spark of life, no glimpse of her soul. She was being eclipsed by the office she held. At what point would she disappear altogether?
Ann sensed that her husband could feel her slipping away. She hoped that her thoughtfulness on his birthday would reassure him, and she was confident that it would, for now. Ted was an easy man to please. He appreciated the simple things in life. He was also a patient man. Yet Ann knew that no marriage was immune from strain, growing apart, and ultimately ending. How long could Ted wait for intimacy to return? What was his breaking point?
Ann’s moments of brooding were fleeting, but in recent days had become much more frequent, and more regretful and wistful in nature. A reoccurring theme was her longing to be a mother, which always resolved itself with the reluctant thought that her inability to conceive a child was a blessing in disguise. If she was struggling to hold on to her own identity, could she have nurtured a child?
No, she answered herself, the office consumed her; she could not have put a child first. Not only did she not have time for a theoretical child, she knew that if she didn’t figure out how to get a grip on herself, she could lose her marriage by the time this was all over. But of course, maybe her destiny included making such personal sacrifices for the greater good. When put into that framework, how could she not rise to the occasion, regardless of the toll?
"President Kinji?"
"Yes?"
Breyana Robertson, in a magenta pants suit today, rapped gently at her open door, as was her ritual. “Paul Tracy is back.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Ann’s shiny bob waggled, giving away the angry
Her run-in with Paul had conjured up memories of Warsaw; walking after school to the library, waiting for her father to pick her up after work; going to Pizza King after a basketball game and giving her best friend a kick under the table to signal it was time to get away from her annoying date; buying a new dress to wear to the Snowball; feeling left out when kids told stories of cow-tipping and barn parties, even though she didn’t really want to be the kind of girl who got invited to the secret parties where alcohol, and other things, flowed freely; riding with her boyfriend through the corn fields; swimming at Winona Lake and getting stuck in the seaweed.
Her mind rested on the Winona Lake story for a few minutes. When she had shouted for help, her father told her to relax, don’t panic, relax. She did, and the seaweed fell away, drifting around her in a swirl of harmless green gunk. She easily swam back to the pier. Life is like swimming in seaweed, she mused.
She was a long way from Warsaw, where basketball was not a mere game or sport, but something as revered as a church service. She had never quite understood the love of basketball, nor did she ever really become a Hoosier – her family moved to Warsaw the summer before she entered fourth grade – but she grew up well there. Watching “brat pack” movies with her friends, attending both proms, tying for first place in the high school talent show, making the honor roll, even taking special classes for “gifted and talented”.
Yes, she was still that girl, the charmed fairy princess, but her ball of light was fast dimming. She couldn't remember the last time she had really looked at her face in the mirror, beyond the face to the spirit within. She saw only what she needed to see to pull herself together each day; the blemishes to conceal, the curve of her lips to paint, the uneven complexion to smooth, the new lines on her face to mask.
In her reflection, her dark eyes stared back at her, awaiting the insertion of contact lenses and the framing of her lids with makeup, but there was no gleam, no spark of life, no glimpse of her soul. She was being eclipsed by the office she held. At what point would she disappear altogether?
Ann sensed that her husband could feel her slipping away. She hoped that her thoughtfulness on his birthday would reassure him, and she was confident that it would, for now. Ted was an easy man to please. He appreciated the simple things in life. He was also a patient man. Yet Ann knew that no marriage was immune from strain, growing apart, and ultimately ending. How long could Ted wait for intimacy to return? What was his breaking point?
Ann’s moments of brooding were fleeting, but in recent days had become much more frequent, and more regretful and wistful in nature. A reoccurring theme was her longing to be a mother, which always resolved itself with the reluctant thought that her inability to conceive a child was a blessing in disguise. If she was struggling to hold on to her own identity, could she have nurtured a child?
No, she answered herself, the office consumed her; she could not have put a child first. Not only did she not have time for a theoretical child, she knew that if she didn’t figure out how to get a grip on herself, she could lose her marriage by the time this was all over. But of course, maybe her destiny included making such personal sacrifices for the greater good. When put into that framework, how could she not rise to the occasion, regardless of the toll?
"President Kinji?"
"Yes?"
Breyana Robertson, in a magenta pants suit today, rapped gently at her open door, as was her ritual. “Paul Tracy is back.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Ann’s shiny bob waggled, giving away the angry
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