Wednesday, March 15, 2006
3:30 a.m.
The Other One had not been pleased. He had been very angry. Punishing and cruel.
He stared into the small mirror above his bathroom sink, steamy from his shower. Using his hand, he wiped the moisture away. Before he could get a clear look at himself, it clouded again. How could the Other One treat him so? They were a part of each other. Not two, but one. It had been so for as long as he could remember.
Not two, but one.
He covered his face with his shaking hands. Hadn’t he suffered enough? He couldn’t rest. Couldn’t close his eyes without seeing that last angel. The image tormented him. Day and night.
Horrible, horrible.
He had been responsible for transforming her into a beast.
Beast. What he had secretly begun calling the Other One, when certain he wouldn’t hear.
For that’s what he was. A beast. And a bully.
Anger surged through him, with it defiance. How dare he scold! Had he asked permission to play games with that detective? To call her, doling out information as he pleased?
No. Absolutely not.
Who had decided the Other One controlled their fates? Not him, certainly.
Beast! Bastard!
He dropped his hands. A darting image in the cloudy mirror caught his eye, and he whirled around.
He was alone in the bathroom. The door was shut but not locked. His imagination was running away with him. Or was it? It wouldn’t be the first time the Other One had come to spy on him.
And what of the angels? Perhaps one-the horrible one-had come to seek revenge for what he had done to her.
He sank to the floor, the ceramic tile cold against his naked backside. He scooted toward the wall, until he was pressed into the corner facing the door.
The minutes passed as he waited, his pounding heart marking off the seconds. Finally, eyes burning, he blinked. And she filled his head, her terrible, ugly countenance. He whimpered and cringed, bile rising in his throat.
He had to be rid of her. But how? How?
Another one. Another angel to take her place.
Perfect and beautiful.
The Other One be damned. He had no one’s permission to ask but his own.
33
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
6:00 p.m.
M.C. wouldn’t admit it to anyone but herself, but she was nothing but a big chicken. At least when it came to her mother. If she’d had her “big-girl pants” on, she would be able to call her mother and tell her she wouldn’t be at dinner. That she had a date.
She would also be able to handle the grilling that followed her announcement with ease and aplomb.
Instead, she was going to take the coward’s way out and get her big brother to do it for her.
Michael took his last appointment at 5:00 p.m. and was home by 5:45, like clockwork. She always joked that he had trained his patients well.
He lived in a beautiful, old residential neighborhood called Churchill Grove. He’d bought a house built in the twenties and had been renovating it little by little over the years.
She climbed the colonial’s front steps, crossed to the door and rang the bell. He came to the door carrying a pint of ice cream and a spoon.
“That stuff’ll make you fat,” she said.
He swung open the door. “Want a bite? It’s Chunky Monkey.”
“Appropriate, Michael.” She stood on tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Work through lunch again?”
“Mmm.” He closed the door behind her, then gestured for her to follow him to the kitchen.
The house smelled of lemon cleaner. “Service come today?”
“Yes, thank God.” They reached the updated but still charming kitchen. She especially liked the retro black- and-white tile counters and floor.
He returned the ice cream to the freezer, then faced her. “A visit from my favorite sister, what a treat.”
Code for: I know you want something, spill it.
“I’m your only sister, Michael.”
“But you’re still my favorite. You want a beer?”
“Thanks.”
She watched as he moved around his small kitchen, totally comfortable. He took a bottle of Corona from the fridge, uncapped it and handed it to her. Then he got one for himself.
“Beer on the heels of Chunky Monkey? Michael, please.”
“Don’t knock it until you try it. How’s the investigation going?”
“We’re working our butts off.”
“I saw you had a new partner. That woman.”
“Kitt Lundgren. She’s heading up the case now.”
“I’m sorry.”
M.C. shrugged and took a swallow of the beer. “She was put on the case for reasons that had nothing to do with my abilities or hers. I’m living with it.”
They stood in silence for several moments, her brother waiting, obviously, for her to share the reason for her visit. She knew that after she told him, he was going to ask a lot of questions.
Talent for interrogation ran in the Riggio family.
“I’m not going to be at dinner tonight. I was hoping you’d pass along the message to Mama.”
His eyebrows shot up. “No good, Mary Catherine. Wednesday nights are not an option.”
“Tell her I have a date.”
“Is that the truth? You know I won’t lie for you.”
He never would, even when they were kids. The rat. “Yes.”
“With a guy?”
He smirked at her and she slugged him. “Yes, with a guy.”
“Bring him along. I’m sure Mama and the rest of the family would love to meet him.”
“I’m sure they would. But I actually may want to see him again.”
“You want to tell me about him?”
“Not yet.”
“How about a name?”
“Not yet.” She smiled. “Sorry.”
“Just tell me, is it an Italian name? So I can pass something along to Mama.”
M.C. laughed and took another sip of the beer. “Yes, for heaven’s sake. The name’s about as Italian as they come.”
The rest of the date wasn’t. But that was another story.
He rolled the bottle between his palms, expression in his dark eyes thoughtful. “You like this guy?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
He pursed his lips. “You don’t date much, Mary Catherine. Just be careful.”
She pictured Lance and laughed. “I’m a cop, Michael. I’m trained in self-defense, am a second-degree black belt and carry a loaded Glock. You don’t need to worry about me out on a date.”
