Read Online Killer Riff by Sheryl J. Anderson - Free Book Online
Authors: Sheryl J. Anderson
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be here now? How convenient. For you,” Claire shot back.
“Don’t you blame me,” Olivia said, on the verge of losing control. I stepped forward instinctively, realizing a split second later that I was concerned she was going to accuse Claire too early, before a persuasive case could be made. Guess Olivia was getting to me after all.
“You’re the therapist, sweetheart,” Claire said, mockingly maternal. “You’re well versed in how often people blame someone else because they can’t handle their own guilt.”
I could feel the knowledge radiating off Claire like heat. Claire knew that Olivia suspected her. A quick glance to Olivia showed she was unexpectedly pale and quiet. Was this her first brush with Claire’s awareness? How close to the bone was Claire cutting? And what did Olivia have to feel guilty about? She was so vehement about her dad being clean, maybe he had had a problem that she hadn’t been willing to recognize. But did that make her suspicions of Claire any less valid? Or was this really just a case of everyone pointing fingers at everyone else because no one could accept the fact that Russell had killed himself, intentionally or accidentally?
“Please leave,” Olivia said in a voice I hadn’t heard yet—small, young, and tired.
Claire bounced her ring in her hand again, weighing her decision and not the keys. She looked at me, and I tried to concentrate, for the article to come and for my own peace of mind, on how vibrantly green her eyes were, not how cold they seemed. “Has she told you about finding her father?”
I started to answer that she hadn’t had a chance, but I stopped, wondering why I was feeling pressed to defend Olivia. Just because she was the first one to point a finger didn’t mean she was right. She might even be wrong that it was murder. But she’d raised Claire’s hackles, which raised my suspicions.
“Please leave,” Olivia repeated with increased urgency.
Suddenly, Claire held out her arms to Olivia and, when Olivia didn’t respond, swept her into a large yet perfunctory hug. “Don’t be late tonight.”
In response, Olivia stared at the floor and said nothing while Claire’s heels punctuated her anger all the way out the front door. Once the door rasped closed, Olivia looked at me expectantly. I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to react, so I tried not to, which thrust the burden of comment back on her. After a few moments, she said, “Would you like a water? Coffee? I should’ve asked earlier.”
“No, thank you.” She seemed smaller than when we’d first met, as though interacting with Claire had made her shrink down into herself, like an anemone recoiling from a brush with a barracuda. I wanted to turn our conversation back to the tapes, but first I had to ask, “What should I know about your finding your father’s body?”
“I didn’t find his body, I found him,” Olivia said grimly. “He was still breathing when I got here, so Claire says it’s my fault he died. That I should’ve gotten help for him more quickly than I did.”
“What do you think?” I asked, self-conscious that I was sounding like a therapist and treading on her toes.
“I couldn’t think. He’d called me and asked me to come over, but he was sounding crazy. He’d been drinking. So when I first came in, I thought he’d just passed out. I figured I’d just tidy up, sit with him, talk to him when he woke up.” She gestured to an armchair with a deep seat and a long matching footstool, almost like a two-piece chaise longue, and I understood this was where her father had been sitting when she’d found him.
The end table beside the chair was a heavy disk of hammered brass resting on a column of monkeywood. It was Thai; I’d seen them when I was growing up, in the home of friends whose parents had been stationed at the embassy there. There was a circular stain on the brass, just about where you’d put a glass if you were sitting in the chair. I rubbed at
“Don’t you blame me,” Olivia said, on the verge of losing control. I stepped forward instinctively, realizing a split second later that I was concerned she was going to accuse Claire too early, before a persuasive case could be made. Guess Olivia was getting to me after all.
“You’re the therapist, sweetheart,” Claire said, mockingly maternal. “You’re well versed in how often people blame someone else because they can’t handle their own guilt.”
I could feel the knowledge radiating off Claire like heat. Claire knew that Olivia suspected her. A quick glance to Olivia showed she was unexpectedly pale and quiet. Was this her first brush with Claire’s awareness? How close to the bone was Claire cutting? And what did Olivia have to feel guilty about? She was so vehement about her dad being clean, maybe he had had a problem that she hadn’t been willing to recognize. But did that make her suspicions of Claire any less valid? Or was this really just a case of everyone pointing fingers at everyone else because no one could accept the fact that Russell had killed himself, intentionally or accidentally?
“Please leave,” Olivia said in a voice I hadn’t heard yet—small, young, and tired.
Claire bounced her ring in her hand again, weighing her decision and not the keys. She looked at me, and I tried to concentrate, for the article to come and for my own peace of mind, on how vibrantly green her eyes were, not how cold they seemed. “Has she told you about finding her father?”
I started to answer that she hadn’t had a chance, but I stopped, wondering why I was feeling pressed to defend Olivia. Just because she was the first one to point a finger didn’t mean she was right. She might even be wrong that it was murder. But she’d raised Claire’s hackles, which raised my suspicions.
“Please leave,” Olivia repeated with increased urgency.
Suddenly, Claire held out her arms to Olivia and, when Olivia didn’t respond, swept her into a large yet perfunctory hug. “Don’t be late tonight.”
In response, Olivia stared at the floor and said nothing while Claire’s heels punctuated her anger all the way out the front door. Once the door rasped closed, Olivia looked at me expectantly. I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to react, so I tried not to, which thrust the burden of comment back on her. After a few moments, she said, “Would you like a water? Coffee? I should’ve asked earlier.”
“No, thank you.” She seemed smaller than when we’d first met, as though interacting with Claire had made her shrink down into herself, like an anemone recoiling from a brush with a barracuda. I wanted to turn our conversation back to the tapes, but first I had to ask, “What should I know about your finding your father’s body?”
“I didn’t find his body, I found him,” Olivia said grimly. “He was still breathing when I got here, so Claire says it’s my fault he died. That I should’ve gotten help for him more quickly than I did.”
“What do you think?” I asked, self-conscious that I was sounding like a therapist and treading on her toes.
“I couldn’t think. He’d called me and asked me to come over, but he was sounding crazy. He’d been drinking. So when I first came in, I thought he’d just passed out. I figured I’d just tidy up, sit with him, talk to him when he woke up.” She gestured to an armchair with a deep seat and a long matching footstool, almost like a two-piece chaise longue, and I understood this was where her father had been sitting when she’d found him.
The end table beside the chair was a heavy disk of hammered brass resting on a column of monkeywood. It was Thai; I’d seen them when I was growing up, in the home of friends whose parents had been stationed at the embassy there. There was a circular stain on the brass, just about where you’d put a glass if you were sitting in the chair. I rubbed at
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