Allison Brennan - Cutting Edge

She closed the door, pocketed her cell phone, and walked quickly away.

“Something’s up with her,” Chris said to Anya and Scott.

“Maggie?” Anya shook her head. “She tried to get back into college, but Rose said they needed the money from last semester before they would readmit her. She doesn’t have enough. I gave her three hundred dollars, all the extra money I have.” She drank her tea. It was icy cold and tasted like oranges.

“Too much sugar,” Scott said after sipping, but he gulped it down anyway.

“I think this whole thing is fucked,” Chris said. “The accident, then the feds killing all those birds. I just want to get out of here. Do you think they might, you know, put it together?”

Anya put a hand on her stomach. She had gas, pretty bad, but she didn’t want to ask Chris and Scott to leave just yet.

“I think I ate too many cookies,” Scott said.

Chris didn’t say anything, but his face was turning purple.

“Chris?” Anya stood, stepped toward him and fell to the floor, her stomach clenching. Suddenly she vomited uncontrollably.

Chris started convulsing, and Anya panicked when she couldn’t catch her breath. Intense pain radiated through her limbs and she couldn’t get up.

She crawled-slithered-to the door. Behind her, Scott started vomiting, the sound so deep, so violent, that Anya feared for him.

She couldn’t see, her head was floating, her body so tight. Her throat burned as if on fire.

It seemed like hours, but it couldn’t have taken her more than a couple minutes to reach the door. She pulled herself up against the wall, could barely touch the knob. Her vision blurred and she couldn’t turn the handle.

“Help!” she called, but couldn’t hear her voice. “Help.” Her throat wasn’t working. All she heard was her own breath coming in raspy moans.

Her hand wasn’t cooperating. Her vision faded, the pain so intense she just wanted to die.

She was dying.

Leif .

Help .

She retched again, down her front, and saw blood. Help .

Her hand fell from the knob and she slumped against the door.

While Nora changed her clothes, Duke walked around her house, curious. He’d never been here before, and he was pleased to see that it was both what he expected-private, tasteful, neat-and what he didn’t expect: open rooms, lots of windows, large garden, and an extensive collection of knickknacks.

The house itself wasn’t large, but it rested at the end of a short, private street in a hidden community in the middle of Fair Oaks. Each room was oversized, with high, vaulted ceilings and large windows. The windows in the rear looked out into a yard that distinguished itself by being simple: A deck overlooked a wide expanse of mowed grass, with established oak trees along the back hillside, a small, elegant pool to the right, and a rose garden to the left. The lighting was well placed, and the yard was one that would be comfortable year-round-there was even a gazebo in the corner for rainy days.

Duke had expected Nora to be more of a minimalist, but her home had built-in bookshelves in nearly every room, bursting with books and knickknacks and pictures, mostly of her and her sister Quin. Nora seemed to collect … things. One shelf of small clear glass animals, another shelf of seashells, another of ceramic elephants, and yet another of coffee mugs from twenty-one of the fifty states. He counted them.

In the den there were stuffed animals of all shapes and sizes and vintage crowding a loveseat in the corner. It made him wonder why she couldn’t part with any of them, why she clung to mementos. Above the couch was a framed photograph of Nora accepting an award, rifle in hand. He looked closer and was impressed, but not surprised, that she’d made FBI Sharpshooter.

There were two bedrooms on either side of the great room, each with its own bathroom, but Duke avoided those, not wanting to walk in on Nora dressing. Not true. He absolutely wanted to watch her dress-or undress. But not tonight. They were exhausted, and he just wanted to make sure she was okay after the afternoon at the lake. The experience bothered her on many levels, and Duke had finally gotten her to start opening up.

He found her in the kitchen. She’d changed into sweatpants and a faded FBI Academy T-shirt. She still looked gorgeous. She’d washed her face, and though she wore little makeup during the day, now she was fresh-faced and looked younger than her years.

“I boiled some water-I’m having chamomile tea, no caffeine-nothing to interrupt my sleep tonight. I also have caffeinated bags-”

“Chamomile sounds great.” It sounded like drinking weeds, but Duke wanted any excuse to stay.

“Do you live far from here?”

“Rancho Cordova.”

She shot him a look. “You don’t seem the type.”

“Because it’s a working-class city?”

“Maybe.”

He shrugged. “It’s my parents’ house.”

“You live with your parents?”

“They died. A plane crash.”

“I’m sorry. Recently?”

“Thirteen years ago. Now it’s just me and Sean.”

She put the tea in front of him, slid over the honey. He sipped it, then added some honey.

“What happened?” she asked.

He realized she thought his entire family was gone. “I should say, it’s just Sean and me in the house. My older brother Kane is a soldier for hire in Central America. The twins, Liam and Eden, are younger than me and live in Europe.”

“Europe?”

“They run their own personal security company there. For the rich and famous.” He laughed, but it didn’t sound funny. Maybe because he’d never thought it was a good idea.

He changed the subject. He didn’t mind talking about his family, but he wanted to find out more about Nora. “I like your house.”

Even in her exhaustion, she brightened. “Thank you. I’ve been here seven years. Bought it just after I turned thirty. It’s always been my dream …” Her voice trailed off and she grew melancholy.

“To own a house?”

“To have a home.”

There was a distinction, and Duke was curious. “Did you move a lot growing up?”

She didn’t say anything for a long minute. “Yeah, you could say that.”

“What would you say?”

“You don’t really want to know.”

“I do, or I wouldn’t have asked. I’m not making small talk.”

“Then what are you doing?” She looked him in the eye. She was suspicious, wary, and sensitive. But there was something about her tone, something hopeful .

Duke leaned back. “I’m getting to know you. It’s what people do when they work together. When they like each other. When they’ve been interested for, oh, four years. It’s called conversation.”

“I must have missed that lesson.” She glanced down at the mug, but there was a half smile on her lips, a smile she didn’t want him to see. She sighed and said, “I didn’t have a conventional upbringing. I didn’t go to school, for one. Lorraine claimed she was homeschooling me.”

“Lorraine is your mother?”

“Unfortunately. Her idea of education was teaching me about her favorite social causes. I learned how to pick a lock, paint a protest sign, and make bombs.”

That wasn’t the answer Duke had been expecting. He didn’t know what to say. How could he have worked with her on half a dozen cases over the years and not known?

Nora waved her hand as if it didn’t matter, but Duke saw it mattered greatly to her. “Some of Lorraine’s friends were saner than she was. I learned how to read because of Gigi, a wonderful but eccentric woman who followed the Grateful Dead around for fifteen years, earning her way by knitting and selling sweaters. I used to have some. My mother left me with Gigi for a few months when she went off on one of her crusades. The first time was when I was five, but I stayed with Gigi quite a bit. She had a pickup truck with a camper shell. Almost like a home.”