Sleight of Hand Read Online Free PDF Page B

into that fellow down the road? A tremor ran through me. I had to know. I went back to the parlor.
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    He had been dozing, but he woke with a start when I came in.
    â€œWhen did you reload your gun?” I asked pleasantly.
    He blinked, then studied me thoughtfully. “I trust you didn’t spoil the fingerprints.”
    â€œI’ll return it when your hand has healed.”
    â€œWhen hell freezes over.”

    His confidence in me was overwhelming. “You didn’t answer my question.”
    â€œWhat makes you think I reloaded it?”
    â€œWho else?”
    He glanced at Lolly, who had followed me into the room.
    â€œYou didn’t …”
    â€œI told you. She’s not as dumb as she looks.”
    â€œI wish you wouldn’t—”
    â€œYou’re afraid I’ll hurt her self-esteem?” He winked at his daughter. “We don’t go in for all that psychobabble, do we, baby?”
    â€œUh-uh.” She shook her head and grinned.
    The exchange had exhausted him. He slumped back against the sofa. Lolly and I returned to the kitchen.
    I stared at the gun on the kitchen table. What to do with it? I sat down to think. I couldn’t leave it there. But I didn’t want to carry a loaded gun around with me. And I didn’t know how to unload it. Lolly was watching me.
    I reached for the tea towel that my surgical instruments had rested on during the operation and wrapped it carefully around the gun. Then I shoved it into my backpack. The risk was minimal. If I kept within the speed limit and avoided potholes, it probably wouldn’t go off. I would keep it in my bureau drawer until further notice. If I really needed a background check on Max, I could always take the gun to the police and they could lift his prints and run them through the national database. If he had a previous record—bingo—I’d find out immediately. How I would explain my possession of the gun was the least of my worries.
    Silently, the cats had resumed their posts. “Let’s go,” I told Lolly. Together, we dismantled the operating room under their watchful gaze.
    â€œHow many cats do you have?” I asked as I scrubbed spots of her father’s blood from the oak table.

    â€œTwelve.”
    â€œHoly mackerel! Do they all have names?”
    Setting a bucket of soapy water laced with Clorox at my feet, she said. “My mommy named them for jewels. She loved jewelry. That’s Sapphire—and Ruby—and Amber … .” She pointed out each cat as she gave me its name. “And there’s Emmy on the windowsill. That’s short for Emerald. And Di is over by the stove. Di is for Diamond. And there’s Lappy—with the dark blue eyes—on top of the refrigerator. Lappy’s short for lapis lazylee.”
    â€œLazuli,” I said, correcting her. “Where did they all come from?” I picked up the mop and dunked it in the bucket.
    Lolly shrugged her big shoulders. “People dump them on the road when they don’t want them anymore. Then they come up to our house looking for food.”
    I grimaced at the heartlessness of people.
    When the kitchen finally looked like its former self, I dropped onto one of the wooden chairs, my head in my hands. I had never been so tired. Not as a resident. Not even as an intern. Without my asking, Lolly brought me a cup of tea.
    â€œThanks.” I looked up at her. “Not just for the tea but for all your help. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œReally.”
    She beamed and plopped on the chair across from me.
    Although it was against my principles to interrogate children about their parents, Lolly wasn’t strictly a child. She fell into a special category. I decided to bend the rules.
    â€œWhere is your mother now?” I asked.
    Her bland, contented face became a sullen mask.
    â€œHas she been gone long?”
    No