Free Yesternight by Cat Winters Page A

today?”
    â€œYes, I examined her this morning.”
    â€œDid you ask her about her earliest memories?”
    I laid the gloves on top of my briefcase and smoothed down the wool until the fingers lay flat. “I know about Violet Sunday.”
    â€œShe told you about her?”
    â€œMiss Simpkin prepared me for the situation, actually, and Janie . . .” I met his eyes. “Janie demonstrated her mathematical prowess to me. She also told me some stories that seem to correlate to the Violet Sunday tale.”
    â€œIt’s not a tale.”
    â€œ Who is Violet Sunday, then?”
    â€œShe’s Janie.” He looked straight at me without blinking. “She’s who Janie was before she was born into this life.”
    Keeping my own face stoic, I gauged the sincerity of his expression—the steadiness of his eyes, the stillness of his lips, the even pattern of his breathing, which neither accelerated nor slowed.
    â€œDo you believe in past lives, Mr. O’Daire?” I asked.
    â€œI didn’t used to.”
    â€œBut you do now?”
    â€œYes. Without a doubt.”
    I fussed with my gloves on the table again. “What is it about Janie’s story that has you so firmly convinced that this isn’t a case of childish fantasy?”
    â€œJanie’s mother and I have kept a record of all of the details she’s given about her previous life. Would you care to see it?”
    â€œYes. Most definitely.”
    â€œMay I serve you a drink before I run up to my room to fetch it?”
    I inhaled the sharp sting of alcohol in the air. “I’m an employee of the Department of Education. I’d lose my job if I purchased a glass of liquor.”
    â€œI never said I sell liquor.”
    â€œBut, I clearly smell—”
    â€œI wouldn’t dream of offering you booze, Miss Lind. How abouta soft drink?” He smirked, and his eyes laughed, as though he knew full well what I smelled—as though he believed me to be too persnickety for bootlegged whiskey.
    I shifted my weight and debated whether a glass of soda pop would meet Miss Simpkin’s definition of being “pampered” by her former brother-in-law. I surveyed my surroundings—the unfinished planks of the dark walls, the weak haze of light exhaled as yellow steam from the bulbs of the copper lamps, the bare tabletops ringed in those octopus-tentacle-like suction marks from all the glasses and bottles of evenings past. Enjoying a carbonated beverage in a dank basement could hardly be described as “pampered,” one would think.
    â€œAll right,” I said. “A soft drink would be lovely. Thank you.”
    He backed toward the kitchen, his hands still wedged inside his pockets. “Root beer? Orange Quench? LimeTone?”
    â€œOrange Quench, please.”
    â€œOn the rocks?”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œComing right up.” He disappeared into the kitchen, but I could see him moving about through the opening in the wall. He wore a cornflower-blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his back faced me, so I viewed the sturdy breadth of his shoulders and the bobbing movements of his elbows as he fetched a bottle from the icebox. His blond hair tapered to a sharp point above the nape of his neck. A slick black belt encircled his trim waist.
    I heard the pop of a bottle cap and a contented sigh from the bottle as he poured a stream of liquid. He then strode back out to me with a glass bubbling with a neon-orange beverage that smelled of penny candy.
    â€œEnjoy.” He set the drink next to my bag and gloves. “I’ll be right back with the journal.”
    â€œThank you.” I sat down and watched him jog up the rickety old staircase, his black shoes thumping out of sight.
    Up above my head, the ceiling soon creaked with the sounds of him hustling about somewhere on the ground floor, and I tried to envision what he was doing up there,