Free Dangerous Attachments (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 1) by Sarah Lovett Page B

shots as she disappeared from the frame. Then, before he was ready, she was back. The whole thing felt like ducks popping up and down at a shooting gallery. Deep in concentration, he bit his tongue. The next time she stepped into frame, he just stared at her, focusing, refocusing. "Yes, baby, yes . . ." he whispered in the darkness.
    He hadn't planned to come here. At home, he'd been restless, angry that everyone was calling his brother crazy. He knew better; Luke wasn't nuts, he just knew how to keep them off balance: they were scared.
    Billy remembered one time when he was in third grade and Luke was in fourth. Luke had refused to talk to the nuns the entire day. He had clamped his mouth shut and smiled when Sister Antonia and Sister Margaret cuffed his ears and made him kneel on concrete. The next day, when Billy tried the same trick, it took one slap from Sister Margaret before he was blubbering and acting like a crybaby.
    At home tonight, his sister Queeny was sick again. And what was worse, the old man was yelling at that lawyer Burnett. Luke would've smiled at it all, but Billy was still just a crybaby. So he'd gone out to cruise, out for a six-pack, and found himself on the road to her house.
    Since he'd delivered the roses, he always parked in the same spot. It was a good place to smoke, finish the beer, watch. Seeing her tonight had prompted him to take his camera out of the trunk. He was good at photography—it was the only thing he'd enjoyed in high school. You could set up your own secret world through the viewfinder. The pictures would be a gift for Luke.
    He wrapped his arms around his chest and paced. His breath came out in smoky wisps. When he happened to look up, he saw that the cloud cover was breaking apart and that stars had appeared, gleaming like glass shards. He lowered his eye to the viewfinder.
    She was back in his frame, moving a pile of books, adjusting her robe around her hips, and then she disappeared. Five seconds later, she walked across the face of his lens, stopped, and turned toward the window. Billy smiled. He watched her reach into the refrigerator and pull out something—milk. She drank directly from the carton and splashed liquid down her chin, onto her chest. He saw her jump back and shake her head. He was ready when she opened her bathrobe and reached for a towel to dab the milk from her breasts.
    Billy squeezed the camera's trigger—yes—got her. Just like a lover, her head was tilted, dark hair framing her face, lips parted. He could feel the excitement when he shot her through the wall of the camera.
    L YLE L OVETT crooned a blues ballad at low volume while Sylvia sang harmony. She put the carton of milk back in the refrigerator, grabbed an Oreo from an open package, and wiped crumbs from her mouth. She found a bottle of Stoli in the freezer, and drained the bottle when she poured herself a generous shot. She carried the vodka to her study.
    On her desk, the test results for an overdue evaluation were strewn everywhere. She found her reading glasses in a tiny drawer built into the back of the desk and adjusted them carefully on the bridge of her nose. She took a swallow of vodka, and stared at her notes, but she found she couldn't concentrate; she was distracted by a guilty conscience. After a few minutes, she picked up the portable handset and dialed a number.
    "Monica?"
    "Sylvia? I've been meaning to call you." The slightly breathless tone, the uneven cadence, were typical Monica. Malcolm Treisman's widow hesitated for a moment.
    "How are you doing?" Sylvia asked.
    Monica sighed. "Oh, all right. No, not really all right, but you know . . . what about you?"
    Sylvia pictured the other woman's slender, girlish body, perfectly cut blond bob, pert features. Monica was one of those people who depended on others to keep things running smoothly. Her life always seemed to fall into place—until Malcolm's death. Sylvia stopped herself from her tendency to dismiss Monica; their