Monday Mourning

Why are you calling?”

“SIJ was able to lift prints from the letter opener. Two sets.”"

"“Menard and the woman.”

“You’re probably half right.”

“Half?”

“The guy’s not Menard.”

28

“THE PRINTS WERE LEFT BY TWO DIFFERENT PEOPLE. NEITHER IS Menard.”

“You’re sure?”

“I sent everything down to Vermont. Their lab compared the latents from our letter opener to those taken when Menard was busted on the DWI charge.”

“But Menard was all over that letter opener.” I wasn’t believing this.

“The guy in the house was.

“Any hit on the second set?”

“No. We’re running them up here, and sending them through AFIS in the States.”

AFIS is the Automated Fingerprint Information System.

“If the guy’s not Menard, who is he?”

“An exceptionally perceptive question, Dr. Brennan.”

This was not making sense. “Maybe there’s a screwup on the prints.”

“It happens.”

“Charbonneau’s got a college yearbook photo of Menard. Let’s roll it by Cyr and see what he says.”

“Can’t hurt,” Ryan agreed.

I waited, half hoping Ryan would reiterate his offer to come over. He didn’t.

“I’ll get the photo from Char—” Ryan started.

I heard what could have been a female voice in the background, then the muffled sound of a covered mouthpiece.

“Sorry.” Ryan’s voice was pitched lower. “I’ll get the photo from Charbonneau and pick you up at eight.”

I held it together through a Friday night macaroni and cheese dinner for one. Through a long, hot bath. Through the eleven o’clock news.

In bed, in the dark, unbidden images bombarded my mind.

A dingy basement. Bones in a crate. Bones in trenches.

A woman in bed, gray hair trailing across her face. A stained mattress. A lifeless body on stainless steel.

Shattered mirrors. A shard in a painting.

Anne with her luggage. Anne peering over her floral frames.

I felt a scream in my belly, streams of hot wetness on my face.

The last time I’d felt this overwhelmed I’d been with Ryan. I remembered how he’d wrapped his arms around me and stroked my head.

My chest heaved and a sob muscled up my throat.

Sucking air deep into my lungs, I drew my knees to my chest, and let go.

A good cry is more therapeutic than a one-hour bump with a shrink.

I awoke purged of all the grief and pent-up frustration.

Rejuvenated.

In control.

Until I made a jackass of myself twelve hours later.