Free All Seeing Eye by Rob Thurman Page A

white, I’d said. I should’ve been more specific. They went for the country look. Not surprising, considering where I lived. Imitation oil lamp, braided rug, and quilt, it was uncomfortably familiar. Of course, the quilt was hunter green, wine, and cobalt blue on a cream background. Nothing like the one I’d slept under for nearly eleven years. That one hadn’t come from an upscale department store. It had been sturdy and ugly as hell. Drab brown, rust orange, and whatever scraps happened to be on sale at the fabric store the day Granny Rosemary got her monthly check from the government. I should’ve cherished it, no matter how hideous it was, becauseit was made with love. For all that my stepfather was—who he was—his mother was a gentle woman. Loving and quick to give hugs and homemade cookies. I should’ve loved it because it came from her, but … I didn’t. I had been a stupid kid, resentful and ashamed of the way I lived. I wanted a bedspread with superheroes or cowboys or, as I grew older, a plain comforter in navy blue or stripes. I never got either. Instead, I’d later learned to do with a thick, itchy institutional blanket of faded gray that had seen hundreds of homeless kids before me. The soft worn cotton of a shabby, homely quilt was missed more than I could’ve dreamed.
    I’d complimented Abby on her choice, nodded as she bragged how she’d gotten it for only two hundred and fifty dollars, then folded it up and put it away in the cedar chest at the foot of the bed the moment she drove away. A simple solid-colored comforter replaced it. It handled the dog hair better, anyway, and it was machine washable. That was helpful for getting out Houdini’s drool stains on a weekly basis. I was damn talented when it came to making money, but that dry-cleaning bill would’ve broken me.
    It was a comfortable house and a helluva lot better than my childish fantasy. I planned on staying there until they zipped me up in a body bag. I only hoped I was watching the river and drinking a cold one when it happened.
    This night wasn’t one for that, though, not unlessI wanted to sit in a pool of my own sweat and inhale bugs instead of air. It was a good decision. The moment I stepped inside, it began to rain, turning the muggy air into an almost impenetrable soup. Listening to the hiss and gurgle of water in the gutters, I decided on reheated pizza and a movie. I’d just popped the veggie special into the microwave when there was a knock on my door. Houdini was so flabbergasted by this unprecedented occurrence that while his head swiveled in the direction of the sound, he remained frozen in his favorite dozing position, on his back on his couch with all four feet in the air. I was nearly as thrown. Except for Abby and Glory, people didn’t show up at my place uninvited. It wasn’t welcome, and, quite frankly, it wasn’t a smart thing to do. Between Houdini and the occasional visit from my sister, my house wasn’t a place for the unwary. And that wasn’t factoring in my annoyance at having my space invaded.
    I threw a jaundiced eye at the unmoving Houdini and went to the door. I wasn’t too surprised to see that it was good old Dr. Chang from that morning. I’d been fairly sure I’d see his lying ass again; I’d just been hoping it wouldn’t be so soon. Or here.
    “Oh, look,” I said, snorting, hand resting on the knob, “someone more persistent than a Jehovah’s Witness. What fun.”
    He was less put together than he had been that morning. Rain had flattened his hair, and the suit jacket was a shapeless sodden mess. He was tryingto protect a white box with a curved arm with only limited success.
    “Could you take this, please,” he said with exasperation.
    I hesitated. My gloves were off, lying on the kitchen counter. Everything in my house was new … safe. No one had been in contact with anything long enough to leave an imprint. Still, it was only a cardboard box, brand-new—chances were it