Free Karma's a Killer by Tracy Weber Page B

she needs a new kidney.”
    Rene reached across the table and took my hand. “How can I help?”
    â€œHonestly, I don’t know. I’d hoped that talking with you about it would make me feel better, but nothing has changed. Every time I think about Dharma, all I feel is anger. I can’t let myself get angry anymore. After Orcas … ” I looked down at my hands.
    â€œKate, you didn’t cause Monica’s death.”
    I looked up. “I know that.”
    I wasn’t lying, simply avoiding the truth—again. Monica’s murder wasn’t the death on Orcas that plagued me. Not the only one, anyway. I still felt responsible for the other fatal accident that weekend. If it was an accident. My angry outburst may not have caused Monica’s death, but it set in motion the events that led to another.
    A familiar churning agitated my stomach. I had to do better—to be better, not just for myself, but for Michael, Bella, and anyone else I might hurt. My angry outbursts had already caused more than enough suffering. And, as The Yoga Sutras asserted, future suffering should be avoided.
    Refusing to cross emotional minefields—like opening up to your estranged mother—might be a good start.
    â€œKate, are you listening?”
    I jumped at the sound of Rene’s voice. “No, sorry. I tuned you out for a second.”
    â€œI said you should meet with your mother and tell her how you feel. Go ahead and get angry with her. Yell if you want to. Tell her how much she hurt you. You’ve kept way too much bottled up inside lately. Releasing some of those pent-up emotions might do you a world of good.”
    Rene meant well, but I couldn’t risk it. Not again. The collateral damage might be too high.
    I smiled, looked my friend straight in the eyes, and lied. “I’ll think about it, I promise.”

Eight
    The rest of the afternoon was blissfully uneventful. I went back to the studio at five-thirty to check on Bella, only to find an empty car and a note from Michael saying that he’d taken her home with him. I left a vague message on Michael’s cell phone telling him that I’d be home late because I had some “things” to do at the studio. After a year together, Michael could read me almost as well as Rene. Until I was ready to tell him about Dharma, my best strategy was avoidance.
    I plastered on my most soothing smile and greeted the fifteen stressed-out yogis who came for six o’clock Yoga Nidra—the comforting meditation sometimes called the Divine Sleep. Truthfully, I taught that class completely on yoga teacher autopilot. Physically, my students and I shared the same space. My body sat at the front of the room, shadowed by flickering candles; my voice filtered through the darkness, creating a soft, spoken lullaby; but my mind never entered the building. It remained out in the parking lot, staring into those eyes so uncannily like my own. What could Dharma possibly want with me after all of these years? And was I even remotely capable of giving it to her?
    Fortunately, my students didn’t seem to notice my mental distraction, or if they did, they were kind enough to not say anything. Yoga students were lovely that way. I said goodbye to the last straggling practitioner, locked the door behind her, leaned against it, and sagged to the floor.
    Dad’s voice scolded from inside my head. Get it together, Kate.
    In a few minutes, Dad. I promise.
    I allowed myself twenty minutes to wallow in self-pity, then forced myself to take action. I symbolically cleared my mind by cleaning the yoga studio. I scrubbed the sink and the toilet. I vacuumed the lobby. I swept and reswept the already clean hardwood floor. I pinched the brown leaves off my jungle of house plants and fertilized the orchids. I folded and stacked the blankets, organized the blocks, and wound up the yoga straps. None of it mattered. No matter how orderly I made the space