Power Play by Tara Lynn Page A

him as he left.
    He hadn’t seemed pissed off. That was good. Whatever this case meant or didn’t, pissing off my client still mattered.
    I looked up Trey quickly on the org charts. His resume on there was amazing. Ok, yeah, he’d come from the same top business school as Deacon. But he’d graduated as valedictorian, won dozens of awards, published papers and even led the sports teams.
    It made me realize two things, though. Deacon might act like a dictator, but he wasn’t starting a cult. He kept good people close, not just loyal ones.
    The second thing, I couldn’t be sure was true. Maybe Trey was just our liaison just because he had done the earlier study. But it seemed possible that he was Deacon's way of staying just out of arm's reach.
    I wasn’t crazy enough to ask Trey if he was babysitting me. But it made sense.
    Deacon wasn't stupid. He must know the pain I sometimes thought about inflicting on him while I stewed on his useless project. He would have to take his reports from a distance.
    Still, my chest felt a little tighter as I kept working. I couldn’t tell whether it was because I was being watched.
    Or because my watcher was so far away.
    ****
    My phone rang just as I got out of my car back in my apartment complex. It was a Houston number, but not in my contacts. I only knew one of those.
    I held my breath, but hit answer. I could always hang up if Deacon said something I didn't want to hear.
    But it was a soft woman’s voice that came out: “Hello, Kerry.”
    It wasn't Deacon. This was someone who I had far less desire to hear from.
    My mother.
    “Why are you calling me?” I said. “I told you never to call me.”
    “Kerry, stop it. This is serious.”
    “I don’t care. I don’t want to hear it.” She was lucky that she hadn’t put my father on the phone. I wouldn’t have stood two words from him.
    “Your father is sick,” she said.
    “I know that. You’re both sick.”
    “Enough. I’m telling you he might have cancer.”
    My lips bent up, but I pressed them flat. No, I wasn’t a monster. I wasn’t going to toast to someone’s bad health. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “But I have to go.”
    “Kerry, stop and think a moment.”
    That was the wrong thing to say. Being free to think was what had got me here.
    “Please don’t call me again,” I said.
    Her voice trilled on, but I clicked it off. I stood in the warm, muggy lot, breathing softly. Outside the gate, a woman jogged by in tight clothes with her dog loping along beside her.
    Life went on. Normal life went on. I was here. I knew who I was now. No force would take me back to that house.
    What if he were in a hospital though? That would be a safe place to see them.
    I breathed the thought out of my head. There was still nothing I’d learn from talking to her. And there was certainly nothing I needed to hear from him.
    I unlocked the door. Mira was my oasis. Maybe she’d be painting inside. Watching her always brought me back down.
    Oh, she was painting alright.
    Her easel was set up in the living room, over a bed of newspaper. She stood before it, hair bunched up, wearing a smock smeared with red, staring at her canvas like she was a chainsaw murderer and it was the victim. Snowflake sat watching, swishing his tail, transfixed by her ferocity.
    “You, uh, alright there?” I asked, moving tenderly her way.
    “I’m great,” she said, still huffing. “I’ve got so much feeling to work with here.”
    Her painting was a crumpled fence of red and orange strokes. I placed a hand tenderly on her shoulder.
    “What exactly inspired this…bout of creativity?”
    “Family.”
    “Ah.” My own blood rose back to a simmer. “I understand.”
    “You don’t,” she said. “This is so not part of the tapestry of an ordinary human life.”
    Normally, I didn’t much care for being undercut, but Mira got a pass. Her folks had their own special brand of crazy.
    “Come on.” I unhooked her spattered apron and led her