Free The Glass House by David Rotenberg

real overlap with Homeland.” He glanced at the extra files that he hadn’t opened for her. Had he thought about showingher their contents? She didn’t know because now he was on his feet, somehow no longer a soft bureaucrat. Now he was a general giving her marching orders. Then he tossed a set of keys at her, which she caught with an athlete’s ease.
    â€œAnd these are?”
    â€œKeys to Leonard Harrison’s house. Your partner wants to start there.” Before she could respond “I don’t work with partners,” Mallory smiled and pressed a button on his desk console.
    Yslan found it odd that he had such an old-fashioned gizmo.
    The door behind her opened, and the handsomest man she’d ever seen entered. He wore a button-down Oxford shirt, cuffed and pleated taupe slacks, and cordovan shoes that must have cost more than a month’s rent. He moved like an athlete yet was a bit fey—Princeton fey.
    Mallory said, “Special Agent Yslan Hicks, you know—”
    Before he could say the man’s name, Yslan said, “Hi, Emerson.” Then she laughed.
    â€œI’m disappointed,” Emerson Remi said.
    â€œWhy’s that?”
    â€œThis time you laughed. In times past I believe I’ve elicited more intimate sounds from you.”
    â€œI prefer laughing.”
    â€œNow why is that?”
    â€œBecause knowing that you have been working for Homeland Security all this time, a lot of things that didn’t make sense now do.”
    Then Hendrick H. Mallory dismissed her. At the door he called to her. “Special Agent Hicks?”
    â€œYes.” She couldn’t bring herself to add the word “sir.”
    â€œBy the by, a cadre is a group—often a secretive group, but a group nonetheless.”
    Of all the shocks she had received in that room, this was somehow the most shocking.

11
VIOLA TRIPPING
    â€œGO AWAY!”
    Sora, Viola Tripping’s nurse and protector for almost thirty years, was startled into waking by her charge’s tearful, “Go away!”
    Sora slipped out of her bed. She knew better than to turn on the overhead light. She had no idea what time it was, but through the opening in her bedroom curtains she saw the deep darkness of the rural Nebraska night.
    â€œGo away! Please go far away,” Viola cried.
    â€œWhy Viola? What’s happened?”
    Sora saw Viola straining to get words from her brain to her mouth. She’d seen her have this struggle before and had read about it in the Cassandra myth. After the god spat in her mouth she was able to see into the future, but when she went to tell anyone, out came nothing but gobbledegook.
    â€œCome on, Viola, tell Sora what’s wrong.”
    Something in the room crashed to the ground. Sora assumed it was her antique full-length stand-up mirror. She steadied herself, then stepped out into the darkness. She felt the glass cut deep into her feet, but she didn’t care. The girl/woman she’d looked after for all this time was clearly coming apart.
    â€œI’m going to turn on a light, Viola, so cover your eyes. I know that light hurts your eyes, so cover them with your hands, sweetie.”
    She waited, but Viola didn’t say a word.
    â€œYou ready? Cover your eyes.”
    Sora punched the wall switch and the overhead snapped on.
    And there Viola was.
    Curled up in a ball in the far corner of the room, her long hair a rat’s nest—and wet. Wet and matted with blood, which seemed to be pouring out of her in dozens of places.
    Then Sora saw it—the razor blade.
    Viola squirmed to a sitting position. She raised the blade to slash down at her exposed thigh.
    Sora threw her body at the girl/woman and the razor skittered a few feet away.
    A beat.
    Then Viola, slick with blood, lunged towards the blade, but Sora kicked it across the room and flopped on top, trapping the girl/woman’s hands beneath her body.
    Sora heard Viola