“To what end?”
“To prove how the lines between the occult, religion, and science are blurrier than ever. Both in the past and now.”
“With the truth lying somewhere in the cracks...”
She hid a smile at his words.
Exactly.
Duncan pointed to the tabletop, where a chained loop held a tarnished pendant. Sharyn had taken it off, along with a couple rings, before handling the book.
“I see you have a Saint Christopher’s medal. You’re Roman Catholic yourself?”
“Actually, it was my father’s. He was a police officer. Died in the line of duty—a crash during a high-speed pursuit.”
“I’m sorry,” Duncan whispered.
“That was four years ago,” she muttered, as if time could excuse the pain.
Sharyn covered the medal with her palm and scooped it into the pocket of her jeans. She was not sure why she had divulged any of this. Still, she had left off one significant detail, maybe out of shame. Her father’s body was found to have a blood-alcohol level of 0.06 percent. While it was within legal limits, it was enough for the carjacker to sue the city and her family. Even with the union’s support and life insurance, the judgment had left the family desolate. Afterward, her mother had taken a reactionary hard turn into a faith that had long since lapsed.
Sharyn, too embittered and angry, could not follow the same path.
Even now, she remained conflicted about his death, about him. Her father’s alcoholism had been a slow progression. From doting parent to a monster who haunted her life. Even in those hard depths, when shouts woke her, when an angry bull roughed through the house, there remained moments of tenderness and concern. When she was a teenager, he would often take her to the gun range. His instructions were firm but softened by humor and compliments. He also enrolled her in self-defense and martial arts classes, where she earned a brown belt in jiujitsu. Unfortunately, she hadn’t had time to gain her black belt before her father passed, and afterward the classes had been too expensive.
While Sharyn had enjoyed the challenge, down deep she suspected the reason behind her father’s encouragement. It wasn’t just to gird his daughter against the harshness of the world, but possibly also to protect her from himself. Often when she dropped an opponent to the mat, he would smile and nod, but there remained a troubled look to his eyes.
While she had suffered verbal abuse during his drunken rages, it had never turned physical. That was the burden of her mother. Black eyes, bruises, broken fingers. Still, she suspected her father feared his anger might one day fall upon his daughter and maybe—consciously or not—sought to give her the means to protect herself.
With his death, Sharyn would never know the truth. Was her father the alcoholic who haunted their house like some dread beast... or the man who cheered her at track meets and who so clearly loved her?
She remembered Duncan’s words from a moment ago and knew they applied here, too:The truth lies somewhere in the cracks.
She took a final few snapshots of the atlas, then straightened. “That should do it.”
Which proved timely, as the door to the reading room swung open. The librarian who staffed the research desk popped her head inside. She was an older woman who wore her gray hair in a tight bun and reading glasses hanging from a chain. “We’ll be closing in five minutes. All material must be returned to their strongrooms.”
“I’m finished,” Sharyn said. “I’ll get everything tidied up and re-box the atlas.”
The woman nodded and ducked back out.
“I can help you,” Duncan offered.
“No need. I can manage.”
“Very good.” He stepped toward the door, then turned back. “Are you going to the Halloween party at the Lemmy?”
“I’m afraid not.” The Lemmy—the nickname for the Lemon Grove nightclub—had a bash planned for the night. “Those tickets are rather steep.”
“I do have a couple extra, if you’d like.”
She shook her head. “My friends and I already made plans to go to the Forum.”
Where there will be no cover charge.
She was on a tight budget, not that she particularly wanted to go either way. The party at the university commons was open to the public and notoriously rowdy. Unfortunately, she had been unable to discourage her flatmates from browbeating her into attending.
“Well...” Duncan patted his pockets, then pulled out a set of black tickets stamped in crimson with the logo of the Lemon Grove. He tossed them on the table. “For you and your friends... if you change your mind.”
