Free The Strategist by John Hardy Bell Page B

the first full day she would face in a long time with absolutely nothing to do.
    Despite her own lack of an agenda, she was positive her father would have something in store for her. As he had declared last night, her pity parade was officially over. He may have respected what she had gone through and supported her decisions along the way, but he also fully expected her to pull herself out of the murk that she had been slogging through, and to do it quickly. That meant no sitting on the couch watching General Hospital while she half-heartedly plotted her re-entry into the world of the productive. How far he was willing to go to ensure that such a scenario was never allowed to play itself out remained to be seen, but as long as she lived under his roof, Camille knew she would have no choice but to play along.
    For now, she simply wanted to enjoy the stillness of a house that she had yet to fully reacquaint herself with. As she walked around each room, she tried to focus on something that would help re-establish her history with it.
    In the kitchen there was the red and green vase that she made for her mother in eighth grade ceramics class. Despite its cracked rim and overall hideous appearance, someone always made sure there were fresh flowers in it; a tradition her father currently maintained with pink and red carnations. On the living room floor was the gold afghan that her mother shampooed at least once a month. On the mantle over the fireplace was the outstanding service award that her mother received from the Colorado Bar Association for her five years as a district court judge. Next to that was a picture from the 2001 Race for the Cure. Camille and her mother stood arm in arm at the finish line, both of them dressed in pink from head to toe.
    In spite of an always radiant smile, the chemo had taken a major toll on her mother’s appearance at that point. Most of her hair had fallen out, and her once bright face was gray and gaunt. She had been diagnosed with breast cancer eight months earlier and signing up for the race had been her way of declaring war on a disease she was determined to beat. For that day, with Camille running beside her the entire three miles, Olivia Grisham did beat it. Early detection, a double mastectomy, and aggressive chemotherapy had given her hope that there would be many more races to run.
    But there wouldn’t be. The cancer spread much faster than the doctor’s anticipated and had quickly become inoperable. Olivia died three weeks before her daughter was accepted into the academy.
    When Camille decided to apply, her mother was the first person she told. Though she expressed initial misgivings the same as any parent would when their only child tells them she wants to be the next Clarice Starling, Olivia eventually embraced the idea. Whenever she found a story related to the FBI, she would clip it from the newspaper. When Camille shared her dream of living and working in Washington D.C., Olivia convinced Paul to start looking at houses in the area. Near the end, when the hospice nurses would visit the house, she always told them they had to work extra hard to keep her alive because her daughter was on her way to becoming an FBI agent and she planned to be there to see her first big arrest. She told them it would be one of the proudest moments of her life.
    Unfortunately, that first big arrest came long after Olivia passed away; and nothing about it, Camille concluded, would have given her reason to be proud.
    As she continued looking around, Camille realized that most everything here reminded her of her mother. She had been dead for nearly nine years, but the house was still decidedly hers. Camille knew that her father’s disinterest in changing the décor had very little to do with his lack of style. It had everything to do with preserving the memory of his wife. Keeping the house unchanged meant keeping her alive; just like keeping Camille’s room unchanged was his way of keeping her