Kathy Reichs - Seizure

To many Bolton students, I was “that girl.” As in, “that girl who broke into Claybourne Manor.” Or “that girl who got Chance arrested.” But I had other titles as well. “The young girl” or “the little kid.” Or my favorite: “the science weirdo.”

From what I could eavesdrop, I was practically a villain. The blue bloods were horrified that a boat kid from Morris had taken down members of their circle.

Stories reached me, burned my ears. Wild tales straying far from the truth. I couldn’t believe some of the rumors. Everyone had an opinion, none complimentary.

Disheartened, I tried to shut out the whispers.

Focus on another sense. Try your nose .

I drew air through my nostrils, careful not to snort. Usually I could ferret a few scents from the breeze. Fresh-cut grass. A cloying perfume. Creed? Sweaty underarms. Melting butter.

Good. Safe, familiar scents.

Then the odors changed. New smells entered my perception. Trace odors, lurking just below the top layer. Undefined and faint, the aromas were difficult to pin down. Yet recognition danced on the tip of my consciousness.

My mind tried to dissect the new olfactory input. Failed. To put it more clearly: my nose stopped making sense.

That sour tang wafting from the red-dressed debutante talking with her boyfriend. Was that … nervousness ?

And the dull vinegary smell oozing from the toddler by the koi pond, the one randomly dropping pebbles into the water. If forced to pick a label, I’d go with … boredom .

I couldn’t explain it, but I smelled … something. And my brain was insisting on the connections. I dug deeper.

A door banged open in my brain. Thousands of trace scents poured through.

Dropping to a knee, I grabbed my head with both hands. The torrent of information was more than I could bear. Straining and quivering, I tried to shake off my flare. I had to make it stop.

SNUP.

The power receded. My senses normalized. It was over.

I pulled off my sunglasses and rubbed my eyes, feeling like I’d been through a ringer. When my lids opened, the Tripod of Skank was three feet away.

CRAP CRAP CRAP .

Courtney Holt. Ashley Bodford. Madison Dunkle.

Three spoiled brats playing at princess. My personal nightmare.

They didn’t like me, and I loathed them. These girls were the last people on earth I wanted to see.

“What are you doing here?” Courtney seemed genuinely astonished. Which, with her intellect, was routine. “Surely you can’t debut now? Not after what you did to Hannah.”

“After what I did?” I spoke without thought. “To her ? Seriously?”

Courtney nodded, wide-eyed, blonde curls bouncing. Her microscopic blue dress struggled hard to cover a perfect figure. Sapphire jewelry sparkled in the afternoon sunshine.

“You’re a criminal,” she said, dead serious. “You make people go crazy!”

The Tripod stood shoulder to shoulder before me. I felt trapped.

“I don’t know how you stayed active.” Ashley brushed glossy black hair from her eyes. “But what I can’t get is why . No one wants you here. You must know that.”

Okay. That hurt .

Madison giggled. She was the nastiest—the Tripod’s front foot. Hair, nails, and makeup flawless, she practically glowed with expensive excess.

Madison also had a crush on Jason. His fascination with me did not go over well.

Where was he? I could’ve used his attention right then.

“The word’s out, Tory,” Madison said cruelly. “Everyone knows you’re a freak. Whose house do you plan to rob next?”

Enough. Three against one, and they weren’t pulling punches. Time to retreat.

To my left was a clubhouse door. I strode over and tried to shoulder it open. It didn’t budge.

Laughter erupted behind me.

“Try pulling, sweetie.” Madison.

“And don’t muss your rented clothing,” Ashley added.

“That is a nice dress,” Courtney said, oblivious as always. “I wonder how she got it? Is there, like, a Goodwill thing for debs or something?”

Our face-off had begun to draw a crowd. I hated the attention.

Madison, however, relished an audience. She moved in for the kill.

“Maybe you should find another activity, Tory.” Chilly smile. “One more suited for someone like you.”

Ashley and Courtney nodded.

Humiliated, I yanked the door open and fled inside.

“So long!” Madison called. “We’ll be here all season!”

Spiteful giggles followed me into the air-conditioned darkness.

THE DOORS BANGED shut behind me.

I sped down a red-carpeted hall, past trophy cases, model ships, and massive murals depicting ancient ocean voyages.

The setting barely registered. My emotions were on tilt.

Get away. Get calm .

The cowardly mantra kept looping inside my head.

Get away. Get calm .

Eventually the hallway dumped me into a lavish dining hall. A gigantic mahogany table occupied the center of the room, surrounded by chairs adorned with embroidered cushions. On the far wall, sunlight poured through huge windows overlooking the harbor. The air reeked of wood polish and fresh linen.

The grandeur of the chamber stopped me in my tracks.

“Swank.” The empty room swallowed my whispered comment.

Hands on hips, I breathed deep, trying to regroup mentally. Slowly, my shaking legs steadied.

I considered my options. Return to the party? No chance. I was done with awkward circling for the day.

Bail? Sure, but how? My ride wasn’t due for an hour.

As I dithered, undecided, a painting caught my eye. Bold and colorful, it stood out from all others decorating the walls.

I stepped closer for a better look.

Oil on canvas. Cedar frame. Old, more weathered than the surrounding paintings, but somehow more vibrant as well. All blues and reds and splashes of yellow. Eye-catching, but clearly not a masterpiece.

Unlike the dour males staring down around me, the subject of this portrait was a woman—a lady swashbuckler dressed in men’s clothing. She stood on the deck of a ship at sea, auburn hair streaming, a pistol in one hand and a dagger in the other.

Captivated, I tried to make out the vessel’s name. No go. I checked the portrait’s curved wooden frame for a nameplate, title, artist, anything.

“Admiring young Bonny, eh?”

I started at the voice. Turned.

A man dressed in a butler’s uniform stood behind me. He was wearing black pants and a white shirt, coat, and vest. A ridiculous white bowtie topped off the outfit. He’d entered so silently I hadn’t heard a sound. Weird .

“You have a good eye.” The man drew close, nodding toward the painting. I guessed his age at somewhere north of seventy. He had a full head of white hair and thick, bushy eyebrows. My mind sent up an image of Colonel Sanders.

Bushy Brows smiled, eyes locked on the canvas. “It’s not the priciest picture in the collection, but it has the most character .” He clenched a fist for emphasis.

I stared, at a loss for words. The old coot seemed to have sprung straight from the carpet.

“Sorry, my manners aren’t what they should be.” Bushy Brows extended a hand. “Rodney Brincefield. Caterer. Bartender. Amateur historian. Jack of many trades.”

I reflexively took his hand, but my guard stayed up. Way up.

“I work part-time for the Palmetto Club.” Brincefield winked. “I love to sneak in here and see my girl.”