a new light. Rather than a passive accomplice to a plot not yet determined, he was an instigator of a subsidiary plot. Not a very efficient instigator, since Therese's father had taken care of the situation, and would have outfaced Rory under any circumstances... I was sick of trying to figure out what had happened in this farmhouse in the past few months.
"I'm going to take a ride," I said abruptly.
"You're going to drive in this snow?" My husband looked amazed, and that was all it took to make me grab my coat. I'd been dragged along on this, outvoted by my husband as to the wisdom of bringing Rory back to Corinth, stuck with the care of Hayden, forced to consort with Martin's ex-wife. I was in a royal snit compounded of grievance and self-pity.
"Yes, I am," I replied briefly.
Even as my better sense - and I did have some - told me to stay at the farmhouse, I grabbed the keys from the counter and my purse from the table and rode the crest of my snit out to the Jeep. I climbed into it, and switched on the engine. It would have served me right if the engine had refused to start or I had driven into the fields on my way to the county road, but to my surprise I got to Route 8 just fine. I paused at the end of the driveway for a minute or two, looking at the map I'd yanked out of the glove compartment. It was the middle of the afternoon, and the sky outside was about to loose its load of snow. I wished I could close my eyes or wiggle my nose and make the kitchenful of men disappear. Then I could go back to the farmhouse without losing face.
But I turned right, on my way to the tiny town of Bushmill. It was easy, after all, to find Bobbye Sunday's office. It was the little building with the snow all over the blackened and broken roof. The trailer parked behind it didn't look damaged, but the snow around it was unbroken. I looked out of the foggy window of the Jeep, shivering despite its efficient heating.
The nearest convenience store was manned (and I'm using the word loosely) by an adolescent male with acne and chin-length hair parted down the middle. It was not a flattering style, but I told myself that was just because I was old, and feeling older by the minute.
I smiled as winningly as I could. "Can you tell me what happened at the office down the street?" I asked.
"Which one?" he asked indifferently.
I will not snap, I told myself. I will not snap and snarl. "The burned one," I said gently.
"It burned," he said, smirking at the points he was scoring off the old dame who was at least in her thirties. I wondered if he would think it was as funny if I kicked him in the groin. I took a deep breath. Overreaction. "When did it burn? Was anyone hurt?"
At least he didn't care why I wanted to know. "I guess it was a couple nights ago," he told me finally. "Someone broke in after midnight, the police figure. Stole some computers and stuff, set a fire. I bet she had some painkillers and stuff in there, someone could sell around here." He smirked again. I felt like giving him a little pain.
"But Miss Sunday is all right?"
"Yep. She was at home when the fire started. She went down there in her nightgown, I heard." Another smirk.
I turned to leave the store, lost in thought.
"Don't you want to buy something?" the boy asked pointedly.
"I do want to find where Bobbye Sunday lives."
"I already told you a lot of stuff," he grumbled. "You need some gas, some cigarettes?"
"No, thank you," I told him, out of all the things I could have said. It had just dawned on me that I probably knew where Bob-bye Sunday lived; the small trailer behind the little office.
The woman that answered my knock was in her early thirties. She was plump and had hair the color of a rusty chrysanthemum. It was either a very inept or a very avant-garde dye job. Either way, it was notable. The cut itself was conventional, short and curly. But her ears were pierced at least four times apiece. Then again she was wearing nurse whites and orthopedic shoes. Miss Mixed Signals.
"Bobbye Sunday?" I asked.
"Yes." She didn't invite me in, but