Free Marked by Alex Hughes

trying to cut the meat—and Del said he didn’t have any. That he’d thrown them all out. He gave some stupid excuse.”
    â€œHe threw away the knives?” I asked.
    Cindy looked away. “That’s what he said. I looked up his trash allowance. . . . He’d thrown away three times the amount of nonrecyclables his plan allowed. They actually fined him. And Del paid the fine—the first time, with no arguing. Del would argue about anything, and he’d walk through fire to save a buck on what he considered a ‘nonessential.’ The Del I knew . . .” She paused here, swallowing back tears and disgust. “The Del I knew would spread out the extra trash over several weeks just to avoid the fine. Even then he’d argue about it.” She looked at me.
I was a horrible man for the cheating comment
, her mind supplied.
    I said nothing. In this case I agreed with her.
    Behind me, Turner shifted. “He’s the best hope you have of getting real answers to Meyers’s death, Ms. Ballon. I’d answer his questions.”
    She looked at me, vulnerable and unhappy. “What do you need to know?”
    I racked my brain. “Did he seem sad? Depressed?”
    â€œNot particularly. He called me up, out of the blue, on Sunday. He said he was tired of storing all of his stuff, and he wanted me to have his grandfather’s old Shaker cabinet. That was one of his most cherished possessions; it’s the master project from a carpenter in the nineteenth century, and it’s been in the family for centuries.” She took a breath. “I told him no, of course, but he wouldn’t let it go. I finally said if it meant so much to him, I’d take it. It should have gone to our children, if we’d had any, he’d said.” That had really hurt, her mind filled in. She’d thought that was maybe why he’d done it, knowing she wouldn’t be able to throw it away or give it away, looking at it every day and thinking she’d cost Meyers his chance at children. A fitting punishment perhaps. And so she’d taken it. Penance.
    â€œDo you think he was crazy, at the end?” I asked her as gently as I could, not that it would matter at this point. I’d probably already offended her as much as it was possible for one human being to offend another. But giving away prized possessions was classic suicide behavior, though that was not in itself what the Guild deemed crazy.
    â€œCrazy?” she asked, and shook her head slightly. “He seemed perfectly sane at the time. A little too sane. Sad, you know? But together. I’m told that it’s possible to carry madness for a long time without developing symptoms, though.” She shivered. “The professionals are putting me under house arrest for another week just in case. At least I should be able to catch up on my reading.” A slight twinge of fear entered the room.
    That same fear, the fear of what I’d seen in that basement cell, what I’d felt trying to burrow into my brain, resonated with me. I was unlikely to develop madness from being in a room with her secondhand for fifteen minutes, I told myself. But the back of my head didn’t believe.
    The clock said fifteen minutes had gone by. “Thank you for answering my questions, Ms. Ballon.”
    I stood, but she didn’t, her mind saying she was waiting for me to leave. Now.
    I left, Turner walking a little behind me so I didn’t attack passersby. Helpful of her.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    A man was waiting for me in the hallway. He had a dark complexion, dark, short natural hair, and the overly smooth skin and too-bright eyes of expensive Guild age treatments, only really available to the political elite of the Council and its advisers. He had the movement of a long-distance runner, smooth and minimalist, but he watched his surroundings like a cop. Something about his mind and