A Fugitive Truth by Dana Cameron Read Free Book Online Page A

dessert in the form of an individual serving of banana pudding in a plastic container after trip number three and Wheel of Fortune .
    Michael, on the other hand, took a more traditional route and dumped a frozen burrito into the microwave. He was still wearing his overcoat, which I’d noticed he’d never bothered to remove during his day’s tenure at the library, and which seemed to remain with him as a form of security blanket. Bored with watching his burrito spin surreally around on the carousel, Michael hopped up onto the counter to watch me mince some garlic with the wide-eyed curiosity and excitement that children have for fireworks or parades.
    “Hey, Julia Child. I think there’s some spices or something over there,” he said, jerking his head to a cabinet near the sink. “I saw some little cans or jars.”
    After I determined that the little jars were full of roach powder and sink cleanser, I got some cumin and chili powder from my little store of groceries I’d brought with me, at Brian’s suggestion, and dumped it into the cooking beans.
    “So where’s, ah, Faith, tonight?” I asked. I wanted to ask Michael, with his seeming inclination to share more of his thoughts and opinions than anyone really wanted, about whatever it was that Sasha was alluding to this morning. It occurred to me that Sasha had made a lot of allusions to things I was curious about. But my gambit to get Michael to speak up worked even better than I thought.
    “Ice Queen’s still off freezing someone’s soul in Boston. She’ll be away for a couple more nights, then she’s all ours again. Just don’t leave the bathroom a mess when you’re in there before her, or you’ll wish your parents had never met.”
    I frowned and dumped my cooked rice into a bowl and then scraped the beans out on top of that. “Oh?”
    Michael was the epitome of archness. “How discreet you are, Dr. Fielding. Why don’t you just come out and ask?”
    “Okay.” I took my bowl over to the kitchen table and began to eat. Around bites I said, “So. Why do you call her the Ice Queen? How do you freeze a soul? Is it just that she’s crabby in the morning, or that she’s a highly functioning but dangerous psychotic? What makes you think I couldn’t take her with one hand tied behind my back? Why would you think that anyone appreciates seeing a messy bathroom in a communal living situation? And how come—”
    Even though it was abundantly clear that I was kidding, Michael sternly held up one hand: Elvis wasn’t coming onstage until the audience was properly hushed, Maestro wasn’t about to begin the symphony until all attention was focused on him. “It’s just my pet name for Faith. I suppose she’s no worse than your common or garden variety touch-me-not, sanguivorous neurotic that the ivory tower seems to incubate by the thousands, but on the minus side, she’s got more armor than a cockroach hiding in a safe deposit box, a tongue like sulfuric acid, and the same benevolent tolerance for ordinary humanity as a pissed-off Gila monster. Unless you have something that she wants, and then, watch out. She changes like a chameleon.”
    I swallowed.
    Michael finished off his assessment of Faith. “Apart from that, she’s sort of cute. Hasn’t published much lately, though.”
    The microwave bell dinged , and Michael hopped down and scooped out the burrito onto a paper towel. He went off to watch the news with Jack before I could ask him any more.
    After dinner I was on my way to my room when the phone rang. I picked up the extension in the second-floor sitting area.
    “Hello?”
    “May I speak with Emma Fielding please?” An oily, faintly familiar voice oozed over the line.
    “Speaking.”
    “Professor Fielding. This is Ron Belcher,” the caller announced, pleased with himself.
    “Dean Belcher, what a surprise.” I was very careful not to say what a pleasure it was; his manner had the same effect on me as biting into sandy butter.
    It should