Free The Edge of Ruin by Melinda Snodgrass

some protein.” Pamela followed her father’s voice into the big granite and steel kitchen.
    The judge was seated next to Richard in the bay window breakfast nook, and pushing a plate closer to her brother. Richard looked ghastly. His hair was tousled and dark circles hung under his eyes and he had gone beyond white to gray.
    “I’ll throw up,” Richard said and looked up as Pamela entered.
    She laid the letter down on the table next to his elbow. “I got this ready for you.” She watched as his eyes flicked across the brief and terse lines of text. She knew it by heart.
    Dear Sir,
    This letter is to inform you of my decision to tender my resignation from the Albuquerque Police Department, effective immediately.
Richard N. Oort
    When he looked up at her, she almost took a step back at the bitter fury that twisted his face. “We haven’t discussed this. I would prefer to wait until the inquiry is over and I’ve been cleared.”
    Their father didn’t respond. He just pulled out a pen and held it out to Richard. There was a look of desperate pleading on her brother’s face, but he lowered his lashes, veiling his eyes, and his face was suddenly as cold and as expressionless as a statue’s. Pamela stiffened; when Richard closed down, there was usually something going on behind the frozen facade. But there was no way he could get out of this. She had made damn sure of that. He took the pen and signed his name.
    “It’s customary, is it not, to turn in the badge and the gun?” Pamela asked. “Where are they?”
    He stared at her, struggled to his feet, and pulled the pistol out of the pocket of his royal blue bathrobe.
    “That’s just pathetic,” she said as she took the gun. The metal was cold and heavy against her palm. “The badge?”
    He grabbed up his crutches and swung out of the kitchen. Pamela followed him across the living room, down the hall, and into the master suite. He hobbled into the enormous walk-in closet. His bare heels were a flash of white in the gloom of that vast space. They moved past mahogany shoe racks, sock drawers, cedar-lined sweater drawers, and electric tie holders.
    Pamela had always thought Richard had a lot of clothes, but his wardrobe barely made an impression in the closet. In fact, his suits looked like huddled little men overawed by their surroundings. He moved to where a line of sports jackets hung. One was hanging apart, and Pamela suddenly realized the dark stains on the navy blazer were dried blood. It was mesmerizing and horrifying, and she just kept staring at it as Richard dug into the inside breast pocket. He threw a leather wallet toward her, and the badge flashed gold as the top flap fell back. It was petty of him to do that. She wasn’t all that coordinated, and he knew it. Sure enough, the wallet grazed her fingers, she grabbed for it with a spastic, jerky motion, and it hit the floor at her feet.
    “There. Happy now?” he asked.
    She picked it up, glared at him, and then forced her glare a smile. “Ecstatic.” She gestured at the coat. “Why are you keeping that thing? It’s disgusting.”
    “Maybe to remember.”
    “Remember what?”
    “What I used to be. What it meant to me. The difference I made.”
    “Oh, please, don’t be so dramatic. It was just a job.”

EIGHT
    R ICHARD
    P amela left with my life tucked away in a cloth tote bag. My father got me settled in a recliner with the rolling computer desk and laptop close to hand, a stack of reports about the various subsidiary companies Lumina owed, and a glass of milk. The hum of the elevator faded away. I gave it a few more minutes just to be on the safe side, then grabbed my crutches and headed back to the bedroom.
    Pain raced up and down my thigh each time I planted the crutches and swung through. Gritting my teeth against it, I wished I’d grabbed the cell phone out of the coat pocket. But Pamela would have asked why I needed it, and I wouldn’t have had an answer she would have believed.