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No More Secrets, No More
Lies
A Soldier's Fortune
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CHAPTER ONE
Thunder boomed. Sydney Morgan jumped slightly as cracks of acoustical energy
followed. The overhead lights of Farnsworth Investments flickered.
Ignoring this early morning summer storm, Sydney turned back to her
new secretary, Tamika Harris.
"I realize
this is your first day here, so let's get some things straight. I do hope
you're good at prioritizing. I expect all of the transcription and the filing
completed at the end of each day-" Suddenly, static crackled through the
intercom on Sydney's desk.
"G'morning
Sydney!" Albert Tibble's voice came through. "If you have a free moment, let's
talk!"
Sydney rolled
her eyes upward. It was way too early, she thought, for Tibble to be calling
her into his office.
"I'll be
right there Albert!" She flicked off the intercom, then aimed a rueful smile at
Tamika. "One does not wait for a free
moment when the Vice President summons." She grabbed a pad and pen, got as far
as the doorway, then turned, and smiled. "By the way, welcome aboard!"
Seconds
later, as series of thunderous explosions pursued Sydney down a monotonous gray
corridor, her mind created a list of reasons why Tibble wanted to see her now.
He
didn't like the last analysis she'd completed, or another lay-off was in the
works-her name heading the list. No! Worse. The firm changed to a less
comprehensive healthcare, an HMO that would probably not cover all Brian's
needs. The last thought produced nausea.
When Tibble's
secretary signaled Sydney to go on through, she took a breath before gingerly
stepping across the expensive Persian rug that boasted unique shades of
burgundy and gray. She headed toward the large desk and sat down on a tufted
winged-back chair that flaunted its own distinct red and black color. Light and
airy, the spacious office contained a slew of expansive floor-to-ceiling
windows, attributes her office clearly lacked. All served as poignant reminders
that years ago, if she hadn't been so impulsive, so blinded by anger and
wounded pride, she might possibly be enjoying a similarly decorated office with
as many, if not more, wide sweeping windows. Inwardly she snorted, picturing
her unique view of Farnsworth's parking lot.
"Sydney,
please have a seat," Albert Tibble absently commanded, obviously unaware that
she was already seated. All she could see now was his balding head, as he was
focused on a manila folder, a rather thick manila folder. She shifted in the
chair as that same thick manila folder stirred her curiosity.
Get
on with it! Her mind urged. Years ago she'd learned to project a screen
of self-confidence that allowed no one to detect what was really going on
inside her.
You
can be as nervous as hell, but don't dare show it!
Words
expressed by a man she had spent years forgetting, or at least dismissing from
her daily thoughts, but whose words at moments like this come in quite handy.
Tibble's head
suddenly lifted. He slipped off his rimless glasses, placing the end of one arm
into his mouth. His faded brown eyes regarded her with a measure of interest.
He then folded the frames and placed them on top of the enigmatic folder,
essentially refocusing both their attentions back to it.
"We have a
firm here who's going public," he started, "and has requested the use of our
services in underwriting their IPO."
Sydney
nodded. Ignored the distant groan of thunder. Ignored the butterflies in her
stomach.
"Although the
telecommunications industry has slowed," Tibble continued, "this company has
held its own through smart strategic moves." He returned the glasses to the
bridge of his nose.
Sydney
nodded, holding back any comment. Tibble, she knew, preferred to finish his
spiels without interruption. But the
man did ramble. She pushed aside images of similar manila folders piling up on
her own work-buried desk.
"The guy in
charge is quite the entrepreneur having built his company from scratch."
Her eyes
traveled down his stubby fingers that caressed the edge of the yet unnamed
folder.
"The
shareholders are looking to sell enough stock to raise monies for expansion."
She felt her
heart flutter. Ah, a "big one" and pictured in her mind's eye
promotion rising like a sweet welcoming sunrise.
"The SEC
requires the stock be registered before they sell to the public. That's where
you come in. You'll draft up the report for the SEC's approval."
Possibly
substantial pay raises...
Tibble lifted
the folder, raising it several inches above the polished glass. As her eyes
struggled to make out the name pasted on the side, a streak of intense
lightning flashed through one long expansive window.
"Promising
companies," Tibble continued, oblivious to the storm, "still can turn out
dismal failures." Deliberately, he lowered the folder. "We can't afford to
carry losers on Farnsworth's books. We don't need the aggravation." His gaze
fell heavily on her. Then he shoved the enigmatic folder across the glossy
surface. "I need your opinion on
this!" The folder stopped at the edge. Overhead thunder broke, rattling
windows.
Sydney
ignored the dryness inching up her throat and stared at the voluminous file.
She knew what Tibble meant. He didn't want to be the only soul accountable if
this company turned out a 'dismal' failure. Slowly, she drew in a breath.
Exhaled. Reread the label.
GS
ENTERPRISES.
The mental
sound of the words rattled like an elusive pebble trapped inside the drum of a
dryer. A peculiar feeling of déjà vu tugged inside. Hadn't she heard the name
mentioned during a recent conversation? Hadn't she once recommended that same
name to-?
"We need to
get moving on this!" Tibble directed. "You're scheduled to meet with their
people this coming Wednesday morning." He leaned his thickly set frame back
into his chair, crossed his arms over a barrel chest that a well-tailored dark
gray suit failed to disguise. "That'll give you slightly over two days to pull
this together. If there are any questions, call their legal counsel." He drew
out a business card from inside the folder. "Name's Greene...Attorney Harold
Greene."
Another flash
illuminated the room, contaminating everything in its eerie glow. Somewhere
from the depths of Sydney's mind, a long affable face took form. A man with
thinning brown hair. Horn-rimmed frames held together strategically with wads
of yellowish tape. Harold Greene, who on more than one occasion would find
himself as arbiter between her and a certain CEO.
The cotton
dryness advanced. She contracted inside, like the narrowing spiral found in a
whirlpool.
She read the
name again-Harold Greene, Esquire. Was this coincidental? Red-letter warnings
resonated in her mind, attaching themselves to the initials G.S.
GS Enterprises...Grant Sinclair...exceedingly handsome Grant
Sinclair-too handsome for his own good, Grant Sinclair. Damn, she thought, he
had changed the company's name-and to one she'd once suggested but he'd
deliberately shot down to prove he was in control.
Tibble,
unaware of her angst, ventured off on another spiel. Sydney searched his
creviced face for answers to questions she dare not yet ask. She felt rising
warmth, the words forming inside her throat died there. Because if this was
Grant's company, every emotion connected with that man's betrayal would
manifest itself on her face. Dare she take a chance and have Tibble detect her
reaction when he confirmed her suspicion?
No!
She wasn't ready! She wasn't ready for the disturbing
probability that Sinclair was back in her life.
You
can be as nervous as hell..
She couldn't
even swallow. Somewhat unsteadily she rose from her chair, then
braced herself against the massive desk. "I'll get on this
immediately." She winced at how her voice sounded like a dozen eggshells
breaking. Then she gently gathered the cumbersome folder into her arms,
thankful that her shaking fingers had something to grasp.
"And you want
my impressions by Wednesday?" she asked, thankful her voice at least did not
quiver.
"Preferably
Tuesday morning...early!" Tibble replied, cutting the time he'd previously
given. "I certainly hope those furrowing brows aren't an indication you're
having reservation about taking this one on."
Sydney
thought of Brian's baseball game later that afternoon. She had promised her son
she'd be there this time. She could pull it off. Sleep was not an option. "Yes.
I mean no. I mean...I do want this."
Tibble's
regarded her with mild curiosity. "Look at it this way, Morgan, when you meet
with them on their own turf, you're sure to get a free lunch."
***
Moments
later, before returning to her own office, Sydney ducked into the ladies room
where she soaked a wad of paper towels in cold water and applied them as a
compress to the back of her neck. Furiously, she tugged more paper towels from
the holder, simultaneously releasing a string of sharp expletives.
Her life was
finally in place, her past put behind her. She glared over at the enemy-the GS
folder lying innocently on the cold marble countertop. Several options rushed
through her mind. She could flush the pages down the toilet. Or better yet, put
that new shredder to good use.
Sydney heaved
a sigh and darted one more hateful glance at the folder.
***
"We've got a
priority one," Sydney informed Tamika, deliberately holding down her panic as
she walked into her office. "We're handling the GS account." She looked at
Tamika, as if expecting she would recognize the name, stand to attention,
perhaps even salute. "We need to get a report back to Tibble tomorrow morning."
Sydney released a mild expletive. "I have to be out of here by six-thirty. I
won't have time to go home and change."
Cautiously,
Tamika ventured closer. "Don't worry, I'll work extra tonight, and I'll
rearrange my schedule and come in early tomorrow."
Sydney
smiled, appreciating the effort. She dropped the folder on her desk, knocking
over several decorative desk puzzles, plus a double-framed photograph whose
edges were garishly decorated with an assortment of bright colored buttons.
Brian had insisted she keep it on her desk. The puzzles helped her maintain a
degree of sanity and, she ruefully noted, would get good use in the upcoming
week.
Tamika picked
up the overturned frame containing two 3" x 5" photos. "What a darling little
boy!"
"My son,"
Sydney said
Tamika's left
brow lifted slightly, and Sydney sensed she was probably looking at Sydney's
naked left hand.
"Yes, I see
the resemblance, especially the blonde hair. And this nice looking man in the
other photo, I gather he's your husb-"
"Yes.
Unfortunately, he died in a motorcycle accident." Sydney did not bother to look
up, but continued to straighten out the puzzles. "I was pregnant at the time
with Brian." She felt her words sounded rehearsed, but she also knew they were
usually enough to stop further questioning.
Tamika gave a
sympathetic nod. "That must've been a terrible time."
"Yes, it
was," Sydney replied softly, then took the frame from Tamika's grasp, shoved it
behind the puzzles. She redirected her attention to the GS folder, whose
dimensions now appearing more intimidating on own her smaller sized desk were
still not as intimidating as Tibble's words.
"You'll
meet with them on Wednesday!"
As she ran a
manicured fingernail along one side of the folder, she felt a sudden sharp
pain.
GS
Enterprises...Sinclair Associates. Out of your life forever? Yeah, right, jokes
on you kid!
She touched
the cover, its porous surface absorbing blood from her finger. Pulling her hand
away, she noticed the paper cut. Absently, she sucked her injured finger, and
with the other hand, flipped open the cover. She Sensed Tamika's eyes drilling
into the middle of her forehead. Although well over a decade had passed, images
of him eddied through her mind-each one threatening to hurtle her into a
swirling vortex of time that would send her back into that shadowy past where
memories could rise like bones from a grave dug too shallow.
"Sydney, is
something wrong?"
As if she'd
touched a hot plate, she jerked her hand from the folder. But not before
reading the first line again-Grant A.
Sinclair, CEO and President of GS Enterprises.
Tamika put
down her steno pad, then reached across the desk.
"No...I'm
fine."
Sydney felt
as if she had been pushed over the side of a raft, thrown into swirling
whitewater rapids, swept up, pushed, dragged, and submerged into an
undercurrent of raw visceral emotion. Unable to breathe as the foggy grayness
attempted to pull her under again, she helplessly watched herself drown as her
mind dredged up more images of that regrettable weekend she had shared with
that man. She walked over to the one narrow window that offered that priceless
parking-lot view, and pressed her forehead against the cool surface. Morning
traffic was easing up. Hartford was a great place to submerge one's identity.
Or so she'd thought.
A city of
insurance companies, banks, and investment firms, a place where you lived and
worked in relative anonymity until eventually you became like one of those
look-alike compacts that now lined her view.
Or so she'd thought.
She turned to
Tamika. "Yes, I could use something-tea, coffee, anything."
Tamika made a
quick exit.
Sydney turned
back to the window where his reflection emerged. How could she face him after
all these years, let alone work with him on this account? Out of the corner of
one eye, she glanced at the folder. Then at her son's picture.
If the truth were known about her and this man..
Suddenly, she
could hear whispered voices with side-glances cast her way from her inquisitive
colleagues. How she detested gossip.
"This should
help," Tamika said.
Gratefully,
Sydney took the cup of steaming coffee from her.
"Look, let's
take a break, then get together on this."
Tamika, still
looking a bit confused, made another exit.
Sydney
settled behind her desk. The storm raged outside, and the one inside her was
just beginning.
***
Parents and
friends waited, anxiously, on bleachers, tucked in lawn chairs, sprawled onto
blankets spread across a summer-scorched grass. Overhead lights flickered as
sunset came. Suddenly, blue and red uniforms spilled out from opposing dugouts.
Sydney,
carrying a pair of high heels in one hand, a box of popcorn in the other,
struggled to reach the top of one bleacher. Once seated, she peered over at the
scoreboard.
The score
tied, top of the sixth.
All Brian had
to do as the Phillie's pitcher was strike out the rival team's next three
batters. The championship was in the bag.
Simple
enough, she thought. Nonetheless, Sydney's fingers anxiously squeezed the
cardboard box.
A poignant
lump formed in her throat as Brian positioned himself on to the pitcher's
mound.
After the
game, they were headed for Bradley Airport where he would board a flight to
Sarasota, Florida and stay with her parents in their new condo located off
coastal waters.
"Walk's as
good as a hit!"
In one fluid
motion, Brian pitched the first ball.
"Steee-rike
one!" yelled the Ump.
A
synchronized groan rumbled through the opposite stand.
Sydney sucked
in the warm July air.
"Steee-rike
two!"
She exhaled
on the following rumble.
Brian,
completing his third wind up, released the ball.
WHACK!
In horror she
watched the ball's trajectory carry it past the bright lights. As it made a
re-entry, it hopped several times before the Phillie's shortstop scooped it and
hurled it to first.
"SAFE!"
The next
batter wiggled into position. Again Brian readied for the pitch.
"Why is that
southpaw wearing that Mickey Mouse mitt?" someone suddenly shouted.
Sydney felt
her lips contract into a thin smile.
"Don't let
the glove fool you. He's the junkman," a young male voice cried. "Morgan
pitches the whole enchilada-fast, curve, knuckle-"
Moisture
stung her eyelids. Brian sometimes pushed the rules with his pitches. Although
his coach did not encourage curve balls, as they were tough on young players'
arms, Brian did what was necessary to
win.
Brian needed
no defense from her.
WHACK!
Jolted by the
definitive sound of ringing metal, she strained to follow the disappearing
sphere into the starless sky. Brian repositioned himself directly beneath the
ball.
Again, she
held her breath knowing the ball was coming straight for his eyes. Most kids
flinched at the sight of an approaching ball, letting it fall to one side.
Brian let it
come right at him, he calmly reached upward, caught it into that 'Mickey Mouse'
glove. Launched it to his second baseman in time to tag the incoming runner.
"OWWWT!"
The next
batter approached the plate, his young face scrunched into a pained expression
of pure concentration.
Brian, taking
his cue from his catcher, raised his arm into a wind up, threw three fast
pitches, each one crossing the strike zone, each one drawing a strike. On the
third out, Brian's team came up to bat.
It wasn't
long before the Phillies had the bases loaded, with Brian on deck and two outs
against them. If he struck out, they would go another inning and the other team
could turn the tide.
He knew it.
She knew it. Everyone in the ballpark knew it.
At this point
Sydney couldn't tell if she'd been eating popcorn or cardboard.
Brian no
longer wore the glove, and the reason for wearing the smaller size was now
obvious.
"Hey, that
kid's missing a right hand!"
Sydney
stiffened and bit her lower lip.
"How in Sam
Hill is he going to hit the ball?"
She tasted
blood. Let them see for themselves.
Watch a boy with a formless stump for a right hand play ball.
"Why doesn't
his coach put in a pinch hitter?"
That coach,
she was tempted to explain, had shown Brian how to hit a ball by using a
backhanded approach instead of the usual forearm swing. A swing he'd perfected.
Sydney merely
smiled, choked back the expletives that begged for release.
The first
pitch whizzed low over the plate straight into the catcher's mitt.
"BALL ONE!"
The second
pitch, slightly higher.
"Steee-rike
one!"
Murmurs of
doubt grew, rippled like storm-driven waves. Sydney looked neither to her right
nor left, but kept her pupils fixed on the form crouched below the blue batting
helmet.
WHACK!
The elusive
ball floated out of the outfielder's reach, landing on the opposite side of the
fence. One by one, Brian and his teammates circled to home.
"Omigod...omigod...they did it!" she cried as caps and gloves flew in all directions. She turned toward
the 'voice' that had spouted off about her son's playing ability and shoved the
mutilated box of popcorn at him. "Here, you need this more than me." Abruptly,
she turned away from his shocked expression, and holding a shoe in each hand,
made her way back down the bleacher.
"Hey Mom,
we're undefeated!" Brian shouted through the silver-wired mesh. "We're number
one!" he cried over the din of screaming teammates.
Almost at eye
level, Brian was fast approaching her five-foot-five height. His broadening
shoulders would eventually give him a build much like his father's. She could
only nod in response to his words, then blinked to clear the moisture from her
eyes, all the while remembering Wednesday's forthcoming meeting at GS. She
pushed aside the disquieting feeling that gnawed inside her -- a feeling that
felt not unlike one felt by approaching impending doom.
***
Sydney
pressed down on the accelerator, cautiously eased into the traffic and prayed
the aging Celica's engine would not stall as it had been doing lately.
"Brian, keep
your seat belt fastened at all times, listen to what the flight attendants tell
you. Make sure Gram calls me when you get in, and-"
"Aw Mom, I'm
not a baby." He tugged his cap down concealing a pair of rolling eyeballs. Then
he turned toward her. "You won't forget to feed Augie and the hamsters?" he
asked, giving his own 'to-do' list. "And make sure you check the lock on his
cage. And you better get him some more crickets. Augie likes an occasional
snack. Not too many or he'll get too big for his cage. Gee, I wish I could take
him."
Sydney let
out a sigh, wishing the same. The iguana hadn't been her pet of choice to say
the least.
"Brian, it's
not that Gram wouldn't appreciate Augie visiting them, but he's better off in
familiar surroundings." She could picture her mother now, standing on some
chair, peering down at Augie from a safe distance.
"Gee Mom, I
wish you were coming."
"If things
let up at Farnsworth, I'll try to fly down for a week. I promise."
"I hope you
can make it for my birthday."
"I'll try,"
she said, hoping she could get away by then. Her workload had doubled over the
past several months, with no increase in pay or hint of one, at least not until
that morning. And then with Brian growing and constantly active, and the
insurance company willing to pay for "growth" replacements for his prosthetic
device. Which reminded her...
"Brian, try
to remember your prosthesis is not a baseball bat. I've had to replace two in
six months, and the insurance pays for only one. I still don't understand how
you lost that second one."
She made
decent money to get by, but having to pay out-of-pocket expenses for these
replacements had been adding more of a strain to an already over-stretched
budget. And what with the car now acting up.
She glanced
over at Brian's hand concealed inside the glove. Brian never left home without
it she ruefully mused. He'd often forget the device, except on Halloweens-which
served as a perfect accessory for any pirate costume he could come up with. But
forget that glove? Not on your life.
Grant
Sinclair.
Suddenly, the
name sprang forth from some far hidden corner of her mind. After eleven years,
images of him still came too easily. His thick blonde hair, and those pale gray
eyes, compelling eyes that left an unforgettable image in any woman's mind.
Someone had
warned her sheer power in an office environment was an enticing aphrodisiac.
But she also remembered how much she enjoyed watching him make those hardball
decisions. Decisions that at times moved mountains. All this had attracted her
to him in the first place, but all this now filled her with some remorse, even
regret, and a poignant reminder of her own indiscre-
"Remember
Mom, make sure the hook is pushed in tight, else he'll escape-"
"Don't
worry!" she answered, brusquely.
"But you
don't like Augie. He knows it. If he gets out, you won't even try to catch him.
You won't touch him."
"Look, I
admit, I'm not too fond of Augie, but it doesn't mean I won't take care of
him."
"He likes
mainly veggies, but you won't forget to feed him those crickets?"
She winced
inside, but forced a nod.
Seemingly
satisfied with her response, Brian settled back into his seat then turned on
the radio. A Karen Carpenter song-an oldie but a goodie was playing. Sydney
suddenly reached over and pushed the scan button until finally settling on a
country western tune.
"Gee, Mom,
with this traffic I hope I don't miss my plane."
"Don't worry,
I gave us plenty of time," she replied, throwing mental threats at the car's
engine that it dare not crap out on her now.
Brian's
attention drifted to the music, hers to a night where emotions for one man had
embraced more than simple business fascination. Back to a night where memories,
like pieces of balsam wood floating in water, refused to sink and invariably
kept resurfacing.
"Are we there
yet?" Brian asked. His hair stuck out in unruly spikes from beneath his cap. He
didn't appear nervous. Her lips pressed into a crooked smile. Brian looked
forward to every adventure. Much like someone else, who because of this latest
development at Farnsworth, would no longer be a shadowy figure in her past.
"We're here,"
she announced, dismissing all thoughts of him
as she pulled into the short-term parking area.
Moments
later, they settled into stiff vinyl chairs. If she hadn't max out her Visa,
she was tempted to purchase a boarding pass for herself and let Tibble go to
that meeting in her place.
***
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LATE 1960's
Let's elope!
Lia Stewart
had made the proposal earlier that afternoon to Sean McIntyre.
"Should I
bring a ladder?" he'd asked, as her mind replayed their last words. "Or
use a disguise? Do I knock three or four times on your
window?
Or do I whistle first, then knock--"
"We'll meet right here," she'd laughingly instructed. "At the maple tree."
Once they were married, no longer could Pop interfere with her life. The thought played well in
her mind as she lugged the over-packed suitcase along the well-worn path that
led to the maple tree. Once there, breathless, she leaned
against its side.
It was all falling into place. Still apprehension filled her. Why
Pop suddenly needed those pants of his hemmed tonight. Yet
she didn't dare argue with him to avoid casting suspicion. She'd
gone ahead and hemmed those pants, even if it meant that she would be late for
their rendezvous.
"I won't stop loving Sean because of what others say. Or because of what you
think of him. I can't stop these feelings inside.
I won't stop these feelings." Lia had wanted to tell her father but knew
those very words would have fallen on deaf stubborn ears.
She gazed up into the maple's branches at the makeshift fort of weathered- beaten planks where
she and Sean had spent the better part of the past summer.
Where they shared tender moments in what he'd labeled their 'secret' love nest.
She shut her eyes and easily pictured him. Pictured his thick coppery
shoulder-length hair.
Pictured him half-naked, wearing those cutoffs that barely covered strong muscular thighs. The
image of him sent her heart pounding. A faint smile curved
her lips.
She had come to know the man quite well over the summer. Sean made her come
alive. More alive than she had ever felt, or, she knew now,
would ever feel in any man's arms. He'd unlocked not only
untried emotions but also a passion that left her wanting more. He
had kindled a burning fire in her soul; one only he knew how to extinguish. And
over that same summer she'd proved to him her willingness to learn what pleased
him. In return, he'd made her feel loved, cherished.
Cherished, she mentally repeated. What woman didn't want that from a man?
A sudden breeze lifted strands of her hair. Earlier she had been tempted to
pull it up in to a neat ponytail, but instead left it hanging wild--.
"Wildflowers," he'd murmured to her once. "Promise me you'll never cut it."
Willingly, she'd made that promise. She would never cut her hair. She
would always wear it long and flowing just for him. Even when she turned the
ripe age of ninety-two.
Again the words "Let's elope!" filled her mind. His hesitance had produced a
cascade of doubt in her mind.
"We should take it a step at a time," he'd suggested.
She'd listened, but they were hollow words. After a long nerve wracking
silence, he'd said finally, "Okay. But it has to be tonight. I'm
leaving for school this weekend."
Sitting on the suitcase, the words sheer craziness swirled inside her head. She
cradled her chin into one palm. Glanced at her watch again. Swallowed
hard. He was late.
But then so had she been late, although by only minutes. He'd
promised to be there at nine sharp.
"You're not going to back out on me, are you?" he'd teased.
"I suspect if anyone's going to back out, it'll be you, Sean McIntyre. If you
jilt me, I'll never speak to you and that's a promise," although said in jest
they had been her last words to him.
A nervous tic jerked at the side of her mouth. Sally suddenly invaded her
thoughts but Lia quickly shoved her sister's image from her mind. What
she and Sean had between them was totally different from what had existed
between her sister and that drifter who was looking to avoid the draft and
Vietnam. She looked at her watch again. Twenty
minutes . . . .
***
The clock on the nightstand by her bed read eleven-thirty. Lia peered into
the frameless mirror. Dull, lifeless eyes stared back. Long
dark hair hung limp, dripping wet.
"You stupid fool," she hissed. "That man's long gone. You
were no more than a summer fling."
She spotted a pair of black-handled scissors resting on the bureau. Ones
she'd used earlier to cut material off her father's workpants. Deliberately,
she picked up the scissors and placed the blades close against her scalp. Unblinking,
she stared straight into the mirror.
On the hard oak floor, an erratic pattern of swirling ebony fell.
***
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