Free The Prettiest Feathers by John Philpin Page A

divorced them, remember? Why don’t you get the hell out of here?”
    He reached out, as if to touch me, but I pulled away.
    “I mean it,” I said. “I’m tired of going to war with you every time we talk. John Wallingford is the best thing that has happened to me in years, and I don’t want you spoiling it.”
    “I’m warning you, Sarah. There’s something really wrong here.”
    “You’re jealous.”
    Robert hit the table with his fist, causing the coffee mugs to jump. “I’m a cop. He’s a liar. There was a double homicide.I think I’ve got a right to be concerned. This guy is bad news. I don’t want him hanging around here.”
    “He’s not exactly hanging around, Robert. I’ve seen him only a couple of times.”
    “I need to talk to him.”
    “You already did that.”
    “No. He sent some gofer over to the office with a bullshit story about the mayor’s party. That, and a copy of
The Swiss Family Robinson
.”
    The Swiss Family Robinson?
I didn’t know what Robert was talking about, but his reference to a book made me think of Rimbaud.
    “I suppose you want that book I bought from Maxine Harris,” I said.
    Robert seemed to shift from drunk to sober. “Right,” he agreed. “I’d like to take a look at that.”
    “You can even take it with you—if you promise to return it when the investigation is over.”
    With Robert following, I went into the living room to get the Rimbaud paperback off the coffee table.
    “Gee, that’s funny,” I said, staring at the empty spot where the book had been just a few hours earlier. “It’s not here.”
    Robert gave me a sideways glance.
    “No, really,” I said. “It was here when I left this morning.”
    He didn’t say anything.
    “This is weird.”
    “If you want company, Sarah, just come out and say it. You don’t have to play games to get me to come over.”
    He was edging closer to me with a teasing look in his eyes.
    I put out my hand, keeping him at arm’s length. “Listen, Mr. Ego, I didn’t invite you here. You were sitting out front when I drove up, remember?”
    He backed off.
    “Besides,” I said, “I really
do
have a book that belonged toMaxine Harris. It was here, on this very table, ten hours ago. Now it’s gone.”
    “Maybe Maxine wanted it back.”
    “You really piss me off.”
    He left—but not without snickering so loudly, he had to know I’d hear it.
    I had some amends to make with Dr. Street. I stopped by his office after work on Friday with a peace offering, hoping to repair some of the damage I had done with that Dr. Street/Dr. Streeter mix up. It was a copy of
Violent Attachments
by J. Reid Meloy. Dr. Street had mentioned it to me once, asking me to watch for a used copy to turn up at the shop. I’d had it for several weeks and was saving it for a special occasion like his birthday or Christmas.
    Dr. Street was clearly pleased. “This is an excellent reference,” he said. “Thank you very much.”
    “I read it, though not with the same understanding that you would,” I told him.
    He looked surprised. “You read it? It’s a bit too graphic for most readers.”
    “But that’s what I loved about it.”
    I took the book back from him and leafed through it until I found what I was looking for.
    “Look at this,” I said, pointing to a few words on page 108—in the chapter titled “The Psychopath as Love Object.” It was a description of a psychopath’s romantic partner: “One woman responded to Card I of the Rorschach with the response, ‘It’s two carnivorous wolves … I wish I could see doves mating.’”
    After he finished reading, Dr. Street asked me what I had found so appealing about that section.
    “It’s that woman. I feel like we have a lot in common. I keep wanting to see birds, but instead I see wolves. And even though they frighten me, I’m drawn to them.”
    Dr. Street looked as if he expected me to say more.
    I shrugged. “I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like there are two