Free Glass Houses by Terri Nolan

summer bloom of lotus flowers in Echo Park Lake. The image always came to him, like a much-touched photograph. Fan-shaped leaves floated atop the water and the delicate pink flowers reached toward the sun on top of thin green stems. It was his calm zone.
    Heavy eyes fell shut. Mumbled voices, far away, inserted themselves into a smoky image of Anne on a dragon boat in the middle of the lake. They disturbed his peace. A yell broke through and Thom’s eyes popped open. The voices hovered high above him. It took a few beats before Thom locked on. From Birdie’s bedroom a night breeze carried an urgent argument.
    â€œHe’s lost,” said Ron.
    â€œExactly my point,” said Birdie. “When something’s lost, you look for it.”
    â€œYou put us at risk.”
    â€œNo one will know.”
    â€œI can’t support this!”
    â€œYou don’t have to. Furthermore, you can’t stop me.”
    â€œJust watch.”
    The air shifted and Thom lost the words. After a drawn-out silence he heard Ron’s iron lung become a menacing growl so low and deep it commanded attention. Thom had heard it after Birdie’s kidnapping when Ron wanted to tear the city down, brick by brick, stucco wall by stucco wall. But that wasn’t the Marine way. The smart way. So he channeled the rage, squeezed it back into his throat and held it there by the strong set of his jaw.
    â€œIt matters to me,” said Birdie.
    Growl.
    â€œI need the closure.”
    Growl.
    â€œHe’s not dead! Why can’t you understand how this makes me feel?”
    Growl, growl.
    And then a slamming door.
    Something sharp bit Thom’s finger. “Shit,” he hissed, flicking the cigarette butt into the ashtray. He jumped up and brushed ash from the couch fabric.
    The burnt skin was nothing compared to the curiosity amped up by three words. He’s not dead . There were two people Birdie loved who died recently. Matt Whelan and her father, Gerard. Both were unequivocally dead. The dead person must be a common acquaintance, which seemed unlikely since Ron and Birdie only met each other after Matt died in January. So what did Ron mean when he said she’d put them all at risk?
    â€œFall asleep with a cigarette in your hand?”
    Thom twirled around. Ron stood there in tighty-whities, arms crossed over his chest, a sleepy, ever-faithful Louise at his heels. Thom wasn’t easily intimated by men, but this guy was an impressive XY specimen. Straight and hard like a shotgun with attitude to match—safe and secure like a broke-open barrel or deadly reckon with a trigger squeeze.
    â€œWhat are you doing up?” said Thom.
    â€œCan’t sleep.”
    â€œMust be contagious.”
    Thom sucked at the burn. Decided to conceal what he heard. “I came down because I couldn’t sleep and then I actually fell asleep with a friggin’ lit cigarette. What a bright shitty day.”
    â€œI have a cure. Come on.”
    Thom followed Ron and Louise to the gym that had once been a carriage house. He squinted when Ron flipped the switch that illuminated the warehouse-sized bulbs encased in bottomless bird cages. The gym was a masterpiece of old and new. Brick walls, hardwood floors, French doors, and the gleaming, modern exercise equipment offset by ornately framed mirrors.
    Thom had seen Ron shirtless before. Seen the tattoos. A Saker falcon in flight covered the entirety of Ron’s upper back. It was frighteningly realistic. On his right bicep a coiled serpent with gold and red scales had one green eye open, one closed. Semper Fidelis and Semper Paratus, curved around the serpent. In this light, the tattoos seemed to spark awake. Unlike Louise, who jumped into a basket of dirty towels. She rolled around in the damp filth, then curled up and covered her eyes.
    Ron retrieved two sets of training gloves from a wicker basket next to the punching bag. He tossed a pair at Thom. “Not my