The Trophy Exchange by Diane Fanning Read Free Book Online

getaways. She had no faith in her judgment in men and turned them all down with apologies that she was not ready yet. She embraced her work and gained tremendous satisfaction serving the public and making a difference. Her commitment to the police department was one she believed was a two-way street.
    She didn ’ t realize how much ego gratification she got from knowing men were interested in her until a shotgun blast blew all those invitations away. It was a garden variety domestic violence call. She responded to the scene after neighbors reported a woman ’ s screams. She stepped into the living room where a battered woman whimpered. “ Is your husband still here, Mrs. Grant? ”
    She nodded her head and her finger pointed to the hallway. Lucinda heard a barely human growl of rage and spun around. She saw the tip of a shotgun barrel aimed at Mrs. Grant ’ s chest. Lucinda lunged at the woman, pushing her out of the way. Lucinda was successful at sparing the woman from any harm but was not quick enough to get herself out of the line of fire.
    Shotgun pellets smashed into the side of her face. Before she hit the floor, a flood of blue uniforms poured through the door. They washed around the shooter and threw him to the ground, disarming and cuffing him in the process. Lucinda heard voices shouting, “ Officer down. Officer down, ” before she faded away.
    Lucinda sighed at the memory, pulled a compact out of her purse and looked in the mirror, turning her head so that only the untouched side appeared in view. From that angle, no one would know she was damaged goods. Unblemished, smooth skin. The tiny creases in the corner of the eye were noticed only by Lucinda; she thanked her mother for passing along that age-defying look. Another genetic present, the perfect eyebrow that rose in a natural arch over thick, long lashes that really didn ’ t need the mascara she applied every morning. Beneath the lashes, a forthright brown eye, the iris so dark it was hard to see where it ended and the pupil began. Unfortunately, she only had one of them now. And that one had lost its sparkle. The lively twinkle was muted – perhaps it would return in time; perhaps it was gone forever.
    Thank God, I don ’ t have to respond to domestic violence calls any longer, she thought as she ran her fingers over the black patch that covered one ruined eye socket. Friends had urged her to get a wardrobe of patches in colors and patterns to complement her outfits but that seemed like a sick acceptance of defeat. She picked black – it matched her mood. Her fingers slid off the patch and roamed over the waxy skin that rose and fell in ripples like a melted candle down to her jaw line. Nausea undulated like an eel through her gut forcing bile into her throat.
    No one wanted to date a woman with a face divided – one half looking as graceful as a creation of Botticelli, the other half looking as if it emerged like the embodiment of a nightmare from the clam shell of Venus ’ birth. In response, she built her walls higher blocking out every living thing but Chester . Her cat was critical when she was slow to open a can of tuna but in all other ways, he accepted her without question, without cringing.
    They did have a few problems living together, though, right after the accident. As she ’ d entered her apartment after her hospitalization, grumbling at the indignity she suffered by her loss of independence – she had to be driven home by someone else – Chester, a lazy, large, neutered, gray tom, ignored her grousing and greeted her with apparent pleasure. He twined around her legs in both affection and as a plea for a bowl of his favorite tinned food. The cat twisted into Lucinda ’ s line of vision and then out again. In and out. In and out. Lucinda ’ s head swam. She pressed both hands to her temples. She heard the physical therapist at the hospital: “ Turn your head. Turn your head. ”
    Vertigo and disorientation rose up on a tide of