Free Shadow Image by Martin J Smith

headlines at seven!” said the impossibly dimpled co-host. “We’ve got the morning traffic hot spots, and our own Tim Mausteller will be along with his umbrella index.” She wrinkled her nose at the camera. “So don’t go away!”
    Christensen muted the commercials with a confident wave of the remote. No one was predicting rain today. “If you’re done, guys, I want you both upstairs to get dressed and do your teeth. It’s supposed to be warm today, so you can wear shorts if you want to. Annie, bring me the hairbrush when you come down, okay?”
    â€œMore syrup,” she said, pointing to a place on her spotless plate. “Just a little pile right there.”
    â€œYou’ve had plenty,” he said. “Upstairs. Don’t forget the hairbrush.”
    His eight-year-old stared coolly over the edge of her plate. “The magic word?”
    â€œSorry.
Please
bring me the hairbrush.”
    â€œOkay,” she said. “Let’s watch that.”
    She would rule the world someday, he knew, possibly with an iron fist. Annie was a formidable intellect even now, with the unshakable confidence of a Zen master and the mood stability of a Texas thunderstorm. Her logic was always flawless, her arguments airtight. He suspected that even her most vulnerable moments were simply ways to manipulate him to mysterious ends that he could never fully appreciate. She allowed him a role in her life, but it wasn’t a lead, and she never let him forget
she
was directing. For now, Annie regarded the occupants of 732 Howe Street, as well as her entire third-grade classroom, more like subjects than peers. She considered herself supremely benevolent in dealing with their shortcomings.
    â€œMy momph!”
    Taylor sprayed waffle mulch as he pointed at the TV, trying to swallow an Eggo wad and talk. “Lowda! Lowda!” He reached across the kitchen table for the remote and got the mute button after changing channels twice. When he found the right station again, Brenna’s face filled the screen. For a moment, Christensen had the unsettling feeling that she’d simply come back after forgetting her car keys or her Starbucks travel cup.
    â€œâ€”on the injuries to Mr. Underhill’s mother?” someone asked from off-camera. A microphone topped by a stylized 2 hovered near Brenna’s face.
    â€œTurn it up, Taylor,” he said.
    Taylor changed channels again, then in a panic began pushing buttons randomly. The set blinked off. Christensen snatched the remote from the boy’s hands too quickly. “You’re doing a good job, T, but maybe it’s not working. Mind if I check it?” He found the right channel on the second try.
    â€œâ€”sustained some injuries during the fall, none permanent or in any way life-threatening.” Brenna was wearing her Professional Face. “The Underhills look forward to having her home in a few days.”
    The camera panned back. Christensen recognized the ground-level view of Grant Street, the metal-and-glass entrance of One Oxford Centre. The reporter and camera crew must have caught her on the way up to the sixteenth-floor offices of Kennedy & Flaherty. He recognized the reporter, too, but he couldn’t remember his name. The word “Live” flashed over and over at the bottom of the screen.
    â€œWe understand the Allegheny County sheriff is investigating the possibility that Mrs. Underhill’s fall was suspicious in nature. Any comment on that?”
    Professional Face. “I’m not aware of details of any investigation, if there is one, into this difficult situation,” Brenna said. “The family is just relieved that she’s going to be okay.”
    The reporter waited. Brenna waited. She knew how to play the game.
    â€œIs she in trouble?” Annie asked. Christensen shook his head, held an index finger to his lips.
    â€œThey’re telling us, quote, the investigation