Free Puppet by Joy Fielding Page B

child Amanda lift the strange object into her hands, sees her turn it over, then lift it to her nose to inhale its cold, metallic scent. And suddenly her mother is in the doorway, crying and yelling and waving her arms like a deranged puppet, wresting the gun from Amanda’s fingers. The child flees the room in terror. Later, when Amanda goes to her mother’s room to try to explain, her mother stares through her as if she doesn’t exist.
    The shoe box wasn’t there the next time Amanda snuck into her mother’s bedroom for a peek in her closet. Nor was its contents ever alluded to again. The question remained unasked throughout the years: What was her mother doing with a gun?
    And now an addendum: Was it the same gun she used to murder John Mallins?
    “Who the hell is John Mallins?” Amanda asks out loud.
    “I’m sorry. Are you talking to me?” The man beside her stares at her with warm brown eyes.
    “What? Oh, no. Sorry. I was just talking to myself. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
    “No problem. I do it all the time.” His eyes return to his book.
    Amanda finds herself staring at his face in profile. It’s a pleasant face, she decides. Not particularly handsome. Although not unhandsome. Long nose, high cheekbones, full lips, strong jaw. Kind eyes, she thinks, wishing he would focus them on her again. “Is that a good book?”
    “What?”
    “You seem very engrossed in your book.”
    “It’s all right.”
    “Just all right?” Why is she badgering the poor man? Clearly he’s not interested in prolonged conversation. He has no need to be distracted and entertained.
His
mother didn’t shoot a stranger in the lobby of the Four Seasons hotel.
    “It’s pretty good so far.” He lays the open book across his lap. “But I’m prepared to be disappointed.”
    “Why is that?”
    “I read a lot of mysteries, and most of them start out okay, but then they kind of fall apart.”
    Amanda nods as if she agrees, although she hasn’t read many mysteries. Life is confusing enough, she thinks. “And how does one prepare to be disappointed?”
    The man smiles, takes several seconds to ponder the question. “One thinks about the past,” he says finally.
    A line of perspiration immediately breaks out along Amanda’s upper lip. She feels her cheeks grow pink andmoist, as if she has just leaned over an open fire.
    “Are you all right?” the man asks, brown eyes narrowing with concern.
    “It’s this coat,” she lies. “I’m about ready to scream.”
    “Here,” he offers. “Let me help you.” He tugs the coat from her shoulders, holds it as she extricates her arms from its bulky sleeves, her right hand shooting out to narrowly miss the jaw of the girl beside her.
    “Sorry about that,” Amanda says.
    A loud crack of gum tells Amanda her apology has been accepted.
    “Would you like me to put this up top?” The man motions toward the compartment above their heads.
    “Thank you.”
    “Feeling more comfortable now?”
    Amanda pats the deep V of her white T-shirt, takes a deep breath. “Much. Thank you.”
    His eyes follow the motion of her hands. “Would you like a glass of water? I can ring for the stewardess.”
    “No, that’s fine. Thanks again.”
    He smiles, extends his hand. “Jerrod Sugar.”
    It takes Amanda several seconds to realize this is his name and not some exotic beverage. “Amanda,” she says, shaking his hand. “Amanda Travis.”
    “Heading home, Amanda?” Jerrod Sugar asks.
    “No, actually. Florida’s my home.”
    “Really? I thought I detected a trace of an accent.
Aboot,”
he says with a chuckle.
    Amanda stiffens. “No. Florida native. What about you?”
    “I’m from Milwaukee, originally. Moved to Abacoa last year.”
    Amanda pictures the small, spanking new city thatis being built between Palm Beach Gardens and Jupiter. Despite being only partially populated, it already boasts its own stadium, golf course, and full-fledged university. She also pictures a wife and