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By Root 1236 0

he was dying, that it was a hallucination or a nightmare of some kind, and not a son witnessing his own father’s murder, by his own mother, but she’d known instantly it was the truth. Had he kept it a secret until the last moments of his life, when that long-ago horror had blasted into his mind? Would he ever have told her? She didn’t think so, despite the fact she was a cop, and maybe that was why—she was a cop. If he had told her, she would have had to decide whether to act on it, come what may. No, if he’d had final control of his mind, he’d have gone to his grave protecting his mother. And maybe himself? Had he agreed to keep quiet because he believed his mother was somehow justified in killing his father? Had her grandfather done something despicable? And did anyone else know? Her Uncle Alan, perhaps.

Lucy brewed herself some strong tea, swallowed two aspirin, a good way to prevent a hangover for her, and walked to the study, a large, high-ceilinged room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covering three walls. The fourth wall was a huge sliding door that opened onto a small enclosed garden where her grandmother had placed a small round table with a bright red umbrella, and a single cushioned chair. Lucy remembered she’d spent a good deal of time sitting beneath that red umbrella on nice days, simply sitting there alone, reading there sometimes, enjoying the beautiful flowers. It seemed very strange, somehow not right, that all of this was to be hers now, as her father’s only heir.

She looked at the large desk. Three unexplored drawers to go, then she’d check again for any secret drawers or hidden spaces. The next drawers were filled with papers in neatly tabbed folders, just like the other drawers, but these tab names were very different from the banks, utilities, charities, and the like that had filled the others. No, these folder tabs read H. G. Wells, Tetra Time—whatever that was—and names of people she’d never heard of who turned out to be psychics, mystics, and science-fiction writers.

Lucy thumbed through the Tetra Time folder. It seemed her grandmother had culled a huge number of publications and books, from the conventional to the wild fringe, and thrown them all into these files. It was a surprise. Her grandmother had never spoken to her about an interest in such strange things. It didn’t seem like her, not her self-contained, serene grandmother. Were you a secret Trekkie, Grandmother?

Get a move on, time’s a-wasting. She couldn’t find anything that gave a clue about why her grandmother had murdered her husband.

Lucy pulled open the last big drawer. On top was a thick folder, untabbed, filled with articles about ancient types of magic that supposedly affected the passage of time itself. Magic? Time? Where had her grandmother found these things? She leafed through folders about people bending spoons, about speaking to a loved one on the other side, interviews with people who’d seen the famous white light before returning from the brink. She quickly looked through more folders about extraterrestrials, alien abductions, experiences with ghosts, hair-raising tales of all kinds. She wondered if her grandmother was losing it at the end. She thought of her father and wondered if he’d seen the white light before he’d died. Lucy shook herself. She remembered the old movie Ghost with Patrick Swayze and felt gooseflesh rise on her arms. She remembered now that her grandmother had spoken to her once about psychic sorts of things. She had asked Lucy if she ever felt the slightest hint of anything unusual. “Like what?” Lucy had asked. And her grandmother had said, “Maybe seeing unusual sorts of things about the future?” Did she ever know what people were thinking before they said it? Lucy had thought it nothing more than a game, and after she’d said no, there’d been no more unusual conversations with her grandmother, so she’d forgotten about it.

She finished looking through the last drawer, then searched behind each of them and under the desktop. Finally she sat back in the big desk chair. She’d found exactly nothing