A Dark Path by Robert E. Dunn

Author:Robert E. Dunn
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2018-04-24T17:50:21+00:00

Chapter 10

The feeling I had walking in my own front door was one of isolation. Originally, it had been Nelson’s door. I still lived among his art, his house, his furniture. It was all beautiful, but a beautiful wall was still something to be climbed over if a woman is to become. . .

What?

And why did I feel it was so important for me to think of these things now?

Stupid questions.

The house was one of those prefabricated log homes that Nelson had placed on a sandstone cliff, looking over a finger of Table Rock Lake. Extending over the fifty foot drop, the glass front of the house looked like the prow of a ship—another voyage going nowhere.

I regretted having stopped drinking—a thought that demanded honesty. I stared out of the windows at the burning world and admitted, I want to drink.

Times like that I had support. Uncle Orson understood. He would help. Clare Bolin understood. He would be there for me. The sheriff. Even Billy. He’s seen me at my lowest—and protected me from myself more than once. Men. All the people in my life that I counted on were men. By any accounting, I had a troubling relationship with the other gender.

That was another thought that made me crave a drink. It was a lie. I knew it even before the idea was fully formed. I didn’t want a drink. I wanted to be drunk.

Someone knocked at the door. It was Billy coming to talk—I was sure of it. He was a good man for talk, and I was glad. Still, I took the time to kick off the sensible shoes and drop my gun and badge.

I opened the door. It wasn’t Billy. Carmen Dando, my mother, stood there with a hopeful semi-smile on her face. It was a familiar look. I’d seen it in the mirror a million times.

“What do you want?” I didn’t have any smile at all.

“Don’t I deserve better than that?”

“Do you?”

“I’m your mother.”

“Are you?”

Carmen opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came. Her hands fluttered about—nervous birds looking for a perch. She touched a strand of hair and pushed it away from her face. That was familiar too. Although, after Iraq, I touched the scar that ran out from under my eyebrow.

Before she could find her words, I added, “And I don’t think you want to start any conversation about deserving.”

“Katrina. . .”

I waited.

Her hands fluttered more. “It’s been such a long time,” she finally said.

“Yes, it has.”

“You’re not going to give an inch are you?” There was a low fire under the question.

“Where were you?”

Carmen looked as though I had slapped her. When she recovered, she said simply, “Life.”

“Yours or mine?”

“I don’t want to fight with you.”

“Then you should go.”

“Do we have to do this here? Like this? Standing on your doorstep. Inside and outside? Can’t we be on the same side of the door? Katrina?”

I pulled the door closer to myself, narrowing the gap. “Too many doors between us, Carmen.”

“You used to call me—”

“Don’t.

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