Free Speaking in Bones by Kathy Reichs

left Strike out. And the possibility that the victim could be Cora Teague.
    Mama listened, rapt. Despite her faults, my mother is a very good listener. When I’d finished, there was a lengthy pause, a prompt to continue. Instead, wanting to stay on safe ground, I shared some of my newfound knowledge about Brown Mountain. Mama flapped a hand, either derisive or disinterested. When I said that was it, she began asking questions. In fact, for the next hour, my mother questioned the bejaysus out of me.
    Things went well, and I stayed longer than I’d planned. Outside, the wind had decided to go all out. I scurried to my car, head down and gripping my cap, the hedges lining the flagstones tossing like ocean waves in a storm.
    By the time I got home it was eleven-twenty. I removed the Ziplocs from my pack and stashed them in the fridge. After feeding an extremely unhappy cat, I stripped off my clothes and hit the shower.
    Smelling of ginger-citrus body wash and lavender shampoo, I finally crawled into bed at ten past twelve. As on the previous night, I considered but decided against phoning Ryan. Too late.
    Again my conscience had to have its say. The guy is a night owl. Why the reluctance?
    Good question. Avoidance of the elephant in the room wearing borrowed and blue? Or did the reason go deeper than that? An unwillingness to share Cora Teague? A subliminal desire to keep separate that which was mine?
    Despite my exhaustion, I lay awake a long time, stroking Birdie’s head and listening for out-of-place noises. Happily, I heard none. Only the hum of feline purring and the rattle of the screen in its frame. Eventually, icy drumming on the glass. Maybe slush, maybe rain. That was my last drifting thought.

    Then I was full-throttle awake, heart in my throat. Alicia Keys was singing about a girl on fire.
    Good news never comes at two in the morning. My mother had cancer. My daughter was in a war zone.
    I fumbled for my mobile. Dropped it. Banged my elbow groping under the bed.
    “I hope I didn’t wake you, sweet pea.”
    “Are you sick?”
    “Not at all.”
    “Mama, it’s the middle of the night.”
    “I am so sorry.” Whispery, excited. Insincere. “But I’ve discovered something I think you should know.”
    “You’re sure you’re all right?”
    “I’m just fine.”
    “I’ve had a very long day. Can we talk in the morning?”
    Mama sighed, a long, disappointed breath meant for me to hear. “I suppose.”
    “Are you feeling unwell?”
    “Asked and answered.”
    There was a time I’d have tried harder to put her off. Not anymore. I’ve learned from experience that Mama determined is an irresistible force.
    “Shoot.” I rolled to my back, phone to one ear, fairly certain of her next words.
    “After you left I got online.”
    Yep. There they were. I pictured her in bed, laptop resting on upraised knees, face mottled with reflected light from the screen.
    “Uh-huh.” I stifled a yawn.
    “Are you listening?”
    “I am.”
    I heard the comforter rustle, knew Mama was repositioning herself for a dramatic delivery.
    “You will not believe what I’ve found.”
    She was right. I didn’t.

A brief comment about Katherine Daessee Lee Brennan.
    Throughout my childhood, Mama was as unpredictable as a summer afternoon at the beach. For months she’d be happy, funny, clever—a presence as vibrant as sunshine itself. Then, without warning, she’d retreat to her room. Sometimes to a faraway place. Harry and I would draw pictures at our little table, whisper in our beds at night. Where had she gone? Why? Would she come home?
    Doctors with differing degrees provided varying diagnoses. Bipolar. Schizobipolar. Schizoaffective. Disorder of the moment. Take your pick. Pick your meds. Lorazepam. Lithium. Lamotrigine.
    No drug ever worked for long. No treatment ever stuck. A cheerful breather, then the darkness would reclaim her. When I was a child, Mama’s mood swings frightened me. As an adult I’ve learned to cope.