The Pieces of My Self

44 - Midsummer's Eve

LILLIAN

The Knightly Mansion, 20 June 2174, Monday Night

When I huddled with the children during last year's big hurricane, Ayita Bischoff gave me advice that stuck: This is the part where we find out who we are. What she meant was, stress exposes people's character like an x-ray. Grady and Amara, nine and three at the time, kept their chins up during that storm, even as wind and water bubbled through Ayita's doors and windows. I was buoyed by their strength and resilience.

And now we were being tested again—by another storm, by greedy thugs, and by a spiderweb of connections left by a dead man.

We were on the run, and my life and livelihood were collapsing, but Debra's life was also in a nosedive. Despite my mixed feelings for her, I wanted to help.

Apparently, Remy felt the same way. He was all in on the idea of visiting the Knightly mansion once he understood his ex-girlfriend was in deep trouble.

Debra had arranged for quick entry through the front gate, but the security system at the door slowed us down. Maybe it was the unexpected number of people that gave it pause.

When the automated greeting screen challenged me, I named four visitors. The system waited a long minute before acknowledging with a message: No more than two people may enter at one time.

Amara and I went first, then watched the display in the vestibule as Remy and Grady followed. A synthetic voice stopped them, warning, "No weapons are allowed inside. Please exit."

I saw Remy shrug, pull up his black sweatshirt, unstrap his underarm holster, and step back outside. The door closed, leaving Grady to pass through alone.

The porch camera on a second screen showed Remy toting his gun to the car and returning to the entrance, empty-handed.

When we were all in the vestibule, Usher escorted us through the gallery. The overhead lights were off, and the hall was lit only by torches. It looked pretty damn medieval.

Within the wide hallway, smoke trails from the fires curled upward to the vaulted ceiling and exhaust vents, like lazy spirits lolling their way to the afterlife.

Debra stood in the library wearing a black ankle-length dress. She was facing the tiled terrace, her expression anguished, a cigarette in her mouth vibrating in time with her quivering chin. Moisture from her eyes rolled down her cheeks.

Tony stood beside her, dressed in business casual, gripping a briefcase, jaw tightened in what I recognized as his resolute pose.

Lit torches flanked the fireplace. Candles burned on the mantel. Below them, a small butcher-block table held a charcuterie board with meats and cheeses, a couple of sharp knives, and a nearly empty bottle of Bordeaux. Usher, the faithful servant, parked himself next to the table.

"Hello, Missus Knightly," Amara said, waving her hand and jumping three times.

Debra and Tony turned as we entered, stopping their discussion.

"Apologies, Debra. I couldn't leave them alone," I said. "And I brought a friend who can help."

Remy gave Debra a nod, but hung back, staying in the shadows.

Debra sniffed, then used the heel of one hand to wipe away tears. "Thanks for coming. I am so completely shaken by—"

Tony interrupted as he stepped forward, a confident smile on his face, both hands open in a here-I-am pose. "Hi kids. Remember me?"

For Amara, that would be like remembering the moment of conception, a little sperm wiggling toward an egg, unmindful of a pending divorce. Glad to see ya! Tony never showed his face to the kids after that. For Grady, it would be like recalling a bad dream.