Page 65 of Fire and Bones

Now what?

I’d completed every task Thacker had requested. Owed her nothing further except for reports.

I lay back against the pillows, reassembling shards of the previous night’s kaleidoscope.

My dreams don’t require a careful parsing of id, ego, and superego. No need for a Freudian consult. Typically, my subconscious takes recent experiences from my waking hours and weaves them into reimagined presentations, some straightforward, others more cryptic.

The source of Ryan’s unhappiness was obvious.

The creepy house was based on the Foggy Bottom property that had burned.

The brothel décor was inspired by Unique Swallow, the place’s one-time owner.

The tiny lady wearing the entangling skirt was undoubtedly the nameless subcellar vic.

The corpse in the culvert was anyone’s guess.

But why that theme? Why that cast of characters?

Had my id recognized something that I hadn’t? Was it suggesting the tiny lady could be Unique Swallow? I’d wondered about that. Swallow had sold the property to W-C in 1942. I had no idea what had happened to her after that.

If I’d known the answers then, things might have been different.

CHAPTER 15

Doyle returned as I was finishing my French toast with whipped cream and berries.

No kidding. If I kept gorging like this, I’d need new pants.

“I understand you’ll be staying with me a bit longer,” my host said brightly as she shifted a long-handled satchel from one shoulder to the other.

“You’ve talked to Katy?”

She nodded.

“I can probably find a hotel—”

“Don’t be silly. I’m happy you’re here.” A long moment passed. Then, “And I’m happy you know about the debacle in Sioux City.”

“We all make mistakes,” I said.

“It was an unbelievably stupid and unethical thing to do. Got me canned and sent my self-confidence into the toilet for years.”

“You were young,” I said. “I’m sure you learned a valuable lesson.”

“You can take that to the bank. Thanks for not judging me.”

“I’ve seen your broadcasts, Ivy. You’re a good reporter.”

“That means the world coming from you.” An introspective moment, maybe thinking about the world, then her face lit up with a sudden idea. “Want to help me with Chuck?”

“Chuck?”

“I’ve agreed to take care of a friend’s chinchilla while she’s away visiting her father. He’s been diagnosed with the big C. The father, not the chinch.”

“Of course,” I said.

“Apparently, chinchillas need food, water, and a dust bath daily.”