Free Cut to the Quick by Dianne Emley

unapologetically white-bread Calabasas, thirty miles away in the hills east of Malibu.
    Vining watched the garage door open. After driving inside, she watched it close, making sure no one slipped in behind her. Unlocking and opening the door into thehouse set off the prealarm. She punched the codes to reset it.
    The house seemed unusually quiet without Emily. She was a quiet child anyway, her hobbies tending toward the bookish, her domain the former rumpus room downstairs, but still Vining felt the absence of her energy. She let her mind wander to a time in the not-so-distant future when Emily would leave for college and Vining would then have nothing in her life but her job. And that bullet of rage.
    The house was stifling. Tossing her jacket over the back of a dinette chair, she walked through the kitchen and family room. In the living room, she clicked on the central air. It hummed to life, sending out refreshing coolness. She yanked the drapes back, removed the steel pin that secured the sliding glass doors, slid the doors open, and walked onto the balcony. The daytime heat had ceded to the cool of night. That morning, Vining had French-braided her long, dark hair and pinned it into a coil at the back of her head. She unfastened the top two buttons of her shirt, spread the collar open to the cool air, and ran her fingers over her damp neck, brushing the indentation of her scar.
    The crickets loved the late-summer heat. Their songs rose in a great chorus from her sloping, ragged backyard and the dried brush and chaparral beyond the chain-link fence. The heat made the city lights shimmer in spite of the smog. Vining had a bird’s-eye view of the unglamorous side of downtown L.A. and points southwest: functional government facilities, working-class and poor neighborhoods, and the Pasadena Freeway. It wasn’t a multimillion-dollar view, as from Mulholland Drive, with a blanket of lights stretching to the ocean, but it was pretty at night nonetheless. She liked being above it all and able to see.
    As she turned to go inside, she ran her hand across wind chimes that were hanging from a steel arm attached to the wall beside the glass door. The arm had once supported a hanging plant, one of many potted plants around the house that she and Wes had nurtured. Vining had had lots of time then to fuss with things like houseplants. Now anything green that survived did so through blind life force.
    The wind chimes had been a Christmas gift from Wes and his wife Kaitlyn a few years back. A description on the box said they were hand-tuned and had a diagram of the musical notes they played. They looked expensive and were totally useless, much like Vining’s view of Kaitlyn, who had likely selected the gift. Keeping on top of gifts and celebrations seemed part of stay-at-home mom Kaitlyn’s job. The chimes did make nice music when the wind blew, Vining had to admit. However, over the past three months, they’d taken on a life of their own, sounding when there was no wind at all.
    Emily had a theory. “It’s Frankie, Mom.” She was referring to the female LAPD vice officer whose battered body had been dumped by the Colorado Street Bridge last June. While working the case, Vining had developed an uncanny relationship with the dead officer, one that suggested a paranormal connection. It was unsettling for Vining and unwelcome. She didn’t want to believe in ghosts.
    As the last musical notes faded into the air, and the background noise of crickets’ songs again became prominent, Vining thought of Frankie. She again headed inside. Before she stepped over the threshold, she heard a clear, high “ding” produced by two of the smaller steel tubes. She looked back to see the two tubes swaying, ringing once more before slowing to a stop.
    Vining stared at the chimes.
    Do it again .
    They never did, of course. Never on demand. Their silence seemed almost willful.
    Inside the house, the answering machine on the kitchen counter showed two