anything the medical profession could do to make things right.
But maybe her grandfather could. First thing when she got home, she was going to track him down. The old man had some explaining to do.
Five
T he apartment door looked different somehow, but Vivian couldn’t think of any reason why. Same old chipped enamel paint in a dull greenish brown. The number 27 in cheap stick-on letters, with the 7 tilted at a drunken angle, caught in the act of falling over backward by badly timed adhesive. A fist-sized dent at eye level, reminder of the previous tenant’s boyfriend, who rumor said was doing time in county jail on domestic violence charges.
Behind the door waited the possibility of a hot breakfast and a comfortable chair. After a drive home through the cold night air, her plan to call her grandfather seemed less reasonable, but it was still on the agenda. In order to get to any or all of these things and the warm bed waiting when they had been done, she would have to open the door.
And she found, for the first time in her life, that she was afraid of this simple and common act.
Fear was irrational.
With quickened breath, she put her hand to the knob. It was unlocked. Every horror movie she’d ever seen flashed through her memory, and like every heroine doomed to death she talked herself out of the impulse to flee. She’d been tired and in a hurry when she left for work, had probably forgotten to lock it. How stupid would she feel if shecalled the cops out to show her an empty and perfectly normal apartment? There was no evidence of breaking and entering.
She shoved open the door.
A woman sat at her kitchen table.
Tall, willowy build. Wide hazel eyes under uptilted brows, a delicate nose, a face beautiful but wrong in a way Vivian felt but couldn’t explain.
“Miss Maylor, don’t be frightened, please. We must have conversation, you and I.”
The accent was foreign, the voice pitched low, rich as dark coffee with cream. There was something familiar about the eyes. Vivian felt a slight pressure on her mind, a suggestion that she allow her thinking to be done for her. It was an offer of comfort, of ease.
Let me worry about your officer, and your mother. Be at rest.
She felt herself take a step into the room, heard something crunch beneath her foot, and looked down to see one of the dream catchers broken on the floor.
“What are you doing in my apartment? What do you want?”
“Miss Maylor, please. You have no cause to be alarmed. I come on behalf of your grandfather.”
“My grandfather?” She felt slow and stupid. Her free hand found its way to the pendant, smooth and familiar to her touch.
“I am his representative. His—attorney, if you will. And you are his executrix. So, as you see, we have much in common, and much to discuss.”
“I don’t understand.” The bottom dropped out of her stomach, leaving a dizzying emptiness. Her vision warped and tunneled, everything fuzzy and out of focus except for the woman who sat at her kitchen table. The woman herself was extraordinarily vivid, as if she were the only three-dimensional thing in the room. Her delicate eyebrows rose in a question mark.
“I’m sorry, did nobody tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“Your grandfather met his end early this morning. I see this is a shock to you. Come, sit. Surely you have many questions.”
“He’s dead? When? How?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t have the details. Perhaps you can speak with the coroner later.”
Vivian’s mouth felt like the Sahara. She was dimly aware of closing the door behind her, stumbling across the room to the table. “Why? Why me, I mean?”
“Your mother is not fit. There is no one else.”
Vivian’s head cleared. She was sitting at her kitchen table across from a strange woman who had entered her apartment without permission. A woman who was telling her that her grandfather had died, now, just when she needed him to be there. She reached into her pocket and clutched the
But maybe her grandfather could. First thing when she got home, she was going to track him down. The old man had some explaining to do.
Five
T he apartment door looked different somehow, but Vivian couldn’t think of any reason why. Same old chipped enamel paint in a dull greenish brown. The number 27 in cheap stick-on letters, with the 7 tilted at a drunken angle, caught in the act of falling over backward by badly timed adhesive. A fist-sized dent at eye level, reminder of the previous tenant’s boyfriend, who rumor said was doing time in county jail on domestic violence charges.
Behind the door waited the possibility of a hot breakfast and a comfortable chair. After a drive home through the cold night air, her plan to call her grandfather seemed less reasonable, but it was still on the agenda. In order to get to any or all of these things and the warm bed waiting when they had been done, she would have to open the door.
And she found, for the first time in her life, that she was afraid of this simple and common act.
Fear was irrational.
With quickened breath, she put her hand to the knob. It was unlocked. Every horror movie she’d ever seen flashed through her memory, and like every heroine doomed to death she talked herself out of the impulse to flee. She’d been tired and in a hurry when she left for work, had probably forgotten to lock it. How stupid would she feel if shecalled the cops out to show her an empty and perfectly normal apartment? There was no evidence of breaking and entering.
She shoved open the door.
A woman sat at her kitchen table.
Tall, willowy build. Wide hazel eyes under uptilted brows, a delicate nose, a face beautiful but wrong in a way Vivian felt but couldn’t explain.
“Miss Maylor, don’t be frightened, please. We must have conversation, you and I.”
The accent was foreign, the voice pitched low, rich as dark coffee with cream. There was something familiar about the eyes. Vivian felt a slight pressure on her mind, a suggestion that she allow her thinking to be done for her. It was an offer of comfort, of ease.
Let me worry about your officer, and your mother. Be at rest.
She felt herself take a step into the room, heard something crunch beneath her foot, and looked down to see one of the dream catchers broken on the floor.
“What are you doing in my apartment? What do you want?”
“Miss Maylor, please. You have no cause to be alarmed. I come on behalf of your grandfather.”
“My grandfather?” She felt slow and stupid. Her free hand found its way to the pendant, smooth and familiar to her touch.
“I am his representative. His—attorney, if you will. And you are his executrix. So, as you see, we have much in common, and much to discuss.”
“I don’t understand.” The bottom dropped out of her stomach, leaving a dizzying emptiness. Her vision warped and tunneled, everything fuzzy and out of focus except for the woman who sat at her kitchen table. The woman herself was extraordinarily vivid, as if she were the only three-dimensional thing in the room. Her delicate eyebrows rose in a question mark.
“I’m sorry, did nobody tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“Your grandfather met his end early this morning. I see this is a shock to you. Come, sit. Surely you have many questions.”
“He’s dead? When? How?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t have the details. Perhaps you can speak with the coroner later.”
Vivian’s mouth felt like the Sahara. She was dimly aware of closing the door behind her, stumbling across the room to the table. “Why? Why me, I mean?”
“Your mother is not fit. There is no one else.”
Vivian’s head cleared. She was sitting at her kitchen table across from a strange woman who had entered her apartment without permission. A woman who was telling her that her grandfather had died, now, just when she needed him to be there. She reached into her pocket and clutched the
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