Free Weakest Lynx by Fiona Quinn Page A

until I reached seventeen. A year later, when I worked in the field, my code name, Alex, showed up in the paperwork. I closed my last file in September. Then Spyder left, and I was done with files.
    Should I hand it over? Dave wasn’t going to ask questions about the crimes. He wanted to run names through the system to see if he could get locations. Who was in jail? Who was West Coast? Could we narrow any of these down and find a suspect? I was worried. Too many computer pings might just flag us with an agency—though sure, the Iniquus clients came from all branches of government. I worked FBI, CIA, ATF, Treasury … lots of clients. Mostly government. A few private. Maybe because they spread over multiple agencies, no one would get curious.
    I looked in the next box. Old newspapers. I dragged it down the porch.
    Should I give him the list … ? We had nothing else.
    Pause to scan—same black cat, different location. Blue minivan parking, one block down, elderly man exiting. Kid on a bike. Wind gust making the bare limbs dance.
    No headway at the police station, Dave kept moving the circumference of his searches wider and wider. I knew it frustrated him—infuriated him—not to be able to stop this for me … I heaved another sigh. Seems as if I lived my life as one great big, weary exhale.
    Evening came. After using up all of my hot water in the shower, I pulled on clean clothes and sat on my front porch under the protective watch of my security cameras and my dogs. I was eating a sandwich for dinner, waiting for Dave. Beetle and Bella hung out, watching the neighborhood activity—kids jumping rope, people coming home from work, a sporadic jogger. Sarah, who lived to the right of Manny’s house, paced along with her five-month-old daughter, Ruby, patiently patting her back and cooing to comfort her. Red-faced Ruby, with her baby fists balled tight, was arched backward and screaming at the top of her little lungs. By the third pass, I called Sarah over.
    “Sarah, you look worn out. Here, let me hold Ruby for a few minutes while you sit down and rest.”
    Frazzled, she handed me her baby and sank down on my stairs. “This darned colic. Her screaming’s driving my whole family up the wall. Everyone’s angry and yelling.”
    I laid Ruby face up on my lap, and placed my palms on her stomach. Ruby blinked up at me, startled, but then her eyes softened. Her crying stopped. Ruby and I held eye contact while I spoke in soft, soothing tones to her. “Relax little one. Let my hands heal you. You’ll sleep so well tonight, give your poor mommy a break.” Soon, Ruby fell asleep.
    I picked her up and cuddled her close, breathing in the honey smell of her copper hair. I loved the baby sweetness of her.
    “What in the world happened?” Sarah’s eyes stretched wide.
    “Reiki. It’s a healing energy thing. Just something I learned to help my mom when she was in hospice. I can’t really explain the mechanics, but …”
    Sarah put her hand up in a “stop” sign and shook her head. “I don’t care how it works. Look at Ruby. She’s not in pain. She’s asleep.” Fatigue slacked the muscles on Sarah’s face, pulling down the corners of her mouth. We sat quietly. Sarah breathed deeply, letting go of her stress; I cuddled sleeping Ruby.
    “You know,” Sarah said after a long while. “When you bought this house, Mrs. Nelson was caught in a bad financial spot.” Sarah raked a hand through her strawberry-blond hair. “She was having some health problems, and the meds she needed took up all her money. My husband, Bob, and I weren’t sure she ate regularly.” Sarah shifted a foot under her hip. “She refused to talk it over with me.” After a few minutes of silence she added, “I didn’t push her, though. I feel guilty now. I told myself I was busy with my own family and all.” She curled her lips in and pulled them flat in a kind of wry smile. “That’s not really the truth. The truth is, we all sort of coexist