Free A Question of Ghosts by Cate Culpepper

any professional failing on your part.”
    “We’re talking about the first and saddest professional failure of my career, Joanne. Perhaps of my life.” Rachel bent stiffly, lifted her purse from the floor, and opened it. “Becca, here are the keys to the house. Remember that damn washer is still on the blink. I haven’t had a chance to get it fixed.”
    Becca accepted the keys numbly. “I’m sorry, Rach.”
    “No harm done.” Rachel kissed Becca’s cheek. “Night, friends.”
    “I’m walking you to your car,” Becca decided. Then she decided the night was over for her, too. “Patricia, Mitchell, thank you for having us. Great manicotti. Jo, you can ride back with me now, or you can jump into Lake Washington and swim to Capitol Hill. Your pick.”

Chapter Six
     
    The lights across the I-90 floating bridge burned an eerie fairy path across the dark water, and Jo sat back in Becca’s rattling Toyota and tried to enjoy the ride. She drove this bridge often enough in her own Bentley, but always alone; she seldom got to take in the scenery that was Seattle’s inherent blessing. Not that the palpable tension in this car allowed for such innocuous pleasure.
    Jo’s stomach rumbled, and she considered asking Becca to stop at a Dick’s Drive-In en route to Capitol Hill. She didn’t know what Patricia Healy considered decent manicotti, but it was not whatever had inhabited Jo’s plate tonight. Dick’s offered an excellent cheeseburger. She glanced at Becca’s still profile and decided against it.
    “I didn’t like the way he spoke to you.” Jo hadn’t intended to say this aloud, but it was the truth.
    “What?” They were the first words that had passed between them since Becca pulled away fast from the stately house in Kirkland. “What are you talking about?”
    “The way he made you feel. I didn’t like it.” Jo struggled to shut up. Her voice revealed too much emotion, too much of the protectiveness that was still so new to her. “Your uncle talked to you as if you’re simple, as if your opinions don’t matter. It was so different the other night, with your friends. They respect you, Becca. I could hear it in their voices. They treated you the way people who love you should. But your face changed tonight when your uncle spoke to you. You got smaller in your chair. It made me angry.”
    “Jo.” Becca’s hands still clenched the wheel, but at least she wasn’t “Joanne” anymore. “Mitchell and Patricia took me in when I was five years old. They never expected to be parents, never even wanted kids of their own. But they raised me kindly. They did the very best they could, bringing me up. And I didn’t always make it easy on them, I promise you.”
    “I find that hard to believe.” Jo looked at Becca’s features, lit softly in the light of the dashboard, and realized she found them lovely. “Except for your phobia, and perhaps your too-hardy appetite, I’d think you’d be easy enough to raise—”
    “Jo, you have to listen to me.” Becca’s voice was less chilly, but still firm. “I’m telling you that you don’t have my permission to be rude to the people in my life. However you might feel about my uncle and aunt, Rachel, my friends, you’ve got to be courteous to them. If we’re going to spend a lot of time together, you have to understand that. You have to do better.”
    Jo stared miserably out the window, flecked now by slanted dots of rain. “I’ll try, Becca.” It was the best she could promise. She had been trying for courtesy all her life and falling short of the mark.
    “Thank you.” Becca glanced at her, and her eyes warmed before she returned her attention to the road. Jo understood she was on her way to being forgiven. She realized she didn’t need to consult her files on microexpressions to know the truth about Becca anymore. This was puzzling, as they’d met only eight days ago. Jo didn’t trust herself to interpret the motivations of many people in her