Читать книгу A Few Little Lies - Sue Welfare - Страница 10

5

‘Post for you, Mrs Hall,’ said a disembodied voice over the security speaker.

Dora glanced out of the office window. The new morning looked uninvitingly grim, but at least there was no sign of the reporter from the Gazette. She stood her cereal bowl beside the computer and pressed the call button, swallowing down a mouthful of cornflakes.

‘Morning, Javid, just stick it through the letter box, will you? Or do you need me to sign something?’

The postman coughed. ‘Do you think you could come down?’

Dora yawned and tied the belt of her robe tighter, before hurrying downstairs. Javid stood on the doorstep, grinning sheepishly, rain dripping off the peak of his cap. In his arms, he was holding a large damp cardboard box. She waved him inside out of the downpour.

‘Don’t tell me, let me guess. I’ve finally come up on the Reader’s Digest prize draw?’

‘Not exactly. Are you taking mail in for someone called Catiana Moran? The address is the same, I think.’

Dora pulled open the flaps of the box and took a letter from the pile inside.

‘Catiana Moran, above the shoe shop. Gunners Terrace, Fairbeach.’ She held out her arms. ‘Sounds like that’s meant for here, Javid. Better pass them over.’

He screwed up his nose. ‘Have you taken in a lodger, Mrs Hall?’

Dora shook her head. ‘Not exactly, Javid.’ She gave him a tight smile and struggled back upstairs.

She tipped the box out onto the kitchen table and picked up a knife. ‘Dear Catiana …’ the first letter began.

Just after one o’clock, Dora shook out her umbrella and stepped from the biting, driving rain into the warmth and subdued social noises of Filbert’s Restaurant.

The maitre d’ smiled warmly in her direction. ‘Hello, Mrs Hall. How very nice to see you again.’

Dora smiled. ‘How are you, George? How’s the family?’

‘Very well, thank you, and yourself?’

Dora nodded her reply.

‘Mr Roberts is already here. Would you like me to take your coat?’

Dora shook her head and headed towards the rotund figure of Calvin Roberts, who was sitting at a corner table, watching the rain trickle down the French windows. He turned as she approached him and frowned. ‘Christ, you look rough.’

Dora pulled out a chair and slipped her coat over the back.

‘Well, how very nice of you to notice, Calvin. Actually I feel a lot worse than I look. Maybe you’d like to cast your eyes over these.’ She took a bundle of envelopes out of her handbag. ‘Just a small selection of this morning’s post.’

Calvin opened the first one. ‘“Beloved Catiana, I have read all your books, I think …”’ He reddened, hastily scanning the rest of the first page. ‘Sweet Jesus, this guy is wasted writing fan letters, maybe I should fix him up with a contract.’

Dora glared at him and pulled a sheet of paper out of another envelope.

‘“… You should be ashamed of yourself, you painted Jezebel. Tar and feathers aren’t good enough for perverts like you,”’ she read in an undertone. ‘Then there’s the religious ones, the ones who want to take me away from all this, marry me, make mad passionate love to me, tie me to a bed and cover me in honey and whipped cream –’

Calvin grinned.

Angrily, Dora grabbed the first letter out of his hand and stuffed it back in the envelope. ‘Well, what are you going to do about these?’

Calvin puffed out his cheeks. ‘You know what they say about publicity. I mean, it shows interest, people have taken the time to write.’

Dora snorted and pulled a copy of the local paper out of her handbag.

‘In that case you’ll probably be interested in this as well. I picked it up this morning to read the report on Jack’s funeral. Page three.’ She shook the paper into submission. ‘Here we are: “Home of Local Porn Queen Broken Into by Vandals.”’

There was a picture of Lillian Bliss above several column inches credited to one Josephine Hammond. Lillian’s picture was obviously a studio shot, a pouting master class photographed against a luxurious backdrop of foliage.

Calvin shrugged, leaning forward to light a cigar from the candle in the centre of the table. ‘The girl at the Gazette rang me for a few comments. She must have picked the call up on the police radio.’

A waiter handed them their menus.

‘I’m not sure I want to eat,’ Dora said.

Calvin feigned astonishment. ‘Good God, now I really am shocked. I’ve heard the profiteroles are very good here. Surely you can be tempted?’

Dora snorted and jiffled the chair closer to the table. ‘Be serious. How would you feel?’ she snapped brusquely.

Calvin’s face settled into an expression of concern. ‘Don’t be so melodramatic, you’ve had a break-in and a few fan letters, that’s all.’

Dora let out a long shuddering sigh. ‘I told you she was dangerous. You’re going to have to get rid of her, Calvin.’

Calvin stared at Dora incredulously. ‘Fire Lillian? Don’t be ridiculous. She’s a pussy cat. Okay, so she made one slip, but she’ll be fine, trust me.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘They could have come round to Gunners Terrace for a quote, you know.’

Dora picked at the posy on the table. ‘They did, but I was out all day after the TV interview –’ She stopped, letting her mind toy with the chain of events. ‘Josephine Hammond was prowling around on the doorstep when I got home, looking for Catiana. What I don’t understand is why she didn’t come back –’ Comprehension dawned. ‘You rang her up, didn’t you, Calvin?’ she hissed. ‘You rang the papers and fed them this entire story.’

Calvin lifted his hands. ‘I thought I’d defuse the situation. I knew you were upset, so I set up an interview at my office, so they wouldn’t come a-huntin’. I told you about it at the funeral, remember? Everyone is very curious about Lillian. And there’s no such thing as bad publicity. I just gave them a brief statement before they started to sniff for something bigger. I mean, isn’t that what we hired Lillian for? She’s paid to take your flak.’

Dora glanced down at the interview Lillian had given. ‘So, who wrote her script this time?’

Calvin looked uncomfortable. ‘I didn’t think you’d want to do it –’ he began.

Dora slapped the paper down in front of him and pointed to a line half way down the second column. ‘“I really love living in Fairbeach. My agent, Calvin Roberts, has got me this lovely little flat on Anchor Quay now I’m getting successful.”’

Calvin choked and grabbed the paper out of her hands. ‘Where does it say that?’ He read it and looked up at Dora apologetically, struggling to regain his composure. ‘She likes people to like her. She just wants to be helpful. She tells them what she thinks they want to hear.’

Dora gave him an icy stare. ‘That’s exactly why she has got to go, Calvin. She looks right but –’ Dora shivered, thinking about Catiana Moran sitting in Smith’s, surrounded by all those ordinary, dull people, in her sleek copper dress, lips drawn back in a carnivorous smile. She should have guessed that something so beautiful might well be dangerous. ‘Hiring Lillian was a bad move. I want my life back.’

Calvin beckoned the wine waiter over and ordered two brandies.

‘Look, Dora, you really can’t let this faze you.’ He shook out his napkin and arranged it across his lap. ‘Let’s change the subject, shall we? How’s the latest book coming along?’

Dora snorted. As far as Calvin was concerned, the matter was already closed. How could she make him understand that Lillian Bliss’ arrival had been like a hand-grenade exploding in her life? Calvin looked at her, expecting an answer. ‘Is this some sort of therapeutic attempt to make light conversation? I haven’t written a single word since the break-in.’

He blew a silvery plume of cigar smoke across the table. ‘It’s understandable you’re a bit upset but it’ll pass. Trust me. The publishers are desperate for the next one. July you said, but if you can get it to them early –’

‘Oh, right, so they’ve got plans for a best seller, have they, now we’ve got Lillian to push the books? I don’t think so. I really don’t think I can do it.’ She took a deep pull from the brandy balloon, feeling a flutter of annoyance settle alongside her sense of ill-ease as the alcohol hit her empty stomach.

Calvin leant forward and rested his fingers lightly on her arm.

‘Don’t get so touchy. I’m just pointing out you have contractual commitments. You’re losing sight of reality here.’ His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘You and I both know Lillian’s just an actress. Catiana Moran isn’t real. This will all blow over.’

Dora shook her head to clear it, feeling the warm glow of the brandy easing into her bloodstream. ‘Not if you keep wheeling Lillian out into the spotlight,’ she said softly, ‘she’s trouble.’

Calvin groaned and swirled his brandy. When the waiter stepped up to the table he ordered for them both while Dora sat staring out of the rain-streaked windows.

Jon Melrose had advised her to check her security – and that was before the letters had arrived. He’d looked very good, hadn’t he? She’d always thought he had beautiful eyes. She encouraged his face and the sound of his voice to float up inside her head as an antidote to Calvin’s indifference and found it as effective as Novocain. It surprised her just how much detail her memory had stored. Just as she was thinking about how Jon’s hair curled into the curve of his neck, she realised that Calvin was still speaking, and she struggled to snap back to catch the words.

‘I’m totally bloody lost without it …’

Dora reluctantly shook away the compelling image of Jon Melrose sitting on her sofa. ‘I’m sorry, Calvin. I was miles away. What did you say?’

Calvin’s face clouded. ‘Oh, for God’s sake. You’ve really got to get a grip, Dora. I was saying, the bastards who broke into the office stole my filofax, off my bloody desk. The only thing they took, I mean, it’s my lifeline, that thing.’

Dora stared at him. She hadn’t seen her diary recently either. Maybe Sheila had tidied it away; she would check when she got home.

‘Never mind your filofax, what are you going to do about Lillian Bliss?’

Calvin groaned. ‘Look, I didn’t invite you to lunch to have this conversation over and over again. I wanted to see how you were. I understand that you’re upset – I’m upset – but there’s the bigger picture to consider. I’ve been talking to the commissioning editor this morning. As far as he’s concerned we’ve hit pay dirt.’ He paused thoughtfully. ‘Shame you can’t get the new book done more quickly. There’s an awful lot of interest.’

Dora turned the brandy balloon round in her fingers. ‘I’m not sure I really want to do any more.’

Calvin sighed theatrically. ‘You’ll feel differently when I show you the new draft contract. Why don’t you come round and take a look at it?’

Dora shook her head. ‘I don’t know,’ she muttered.

Stealthily, the waiter slipped their plates onto the table.

Calvin picked up his fork. ‘Stop sulking. Let’s try and talk about something else shall we?’

Jon Melrose had looked better than Dora remembered him, threads of laughter lines gathering around his dark eyes, broad shoulders – she shivered and glanced up at the restaurant clock. Eight o’clock, seven or so more hours to go.

Calvin’s mouth was opening and closing rhythmically. Between words he pushed slivers of salmon into it.

‘… What a bastard I thought, what a smug, self-satisfied bastard.’

‘Who?’

‘What?’ Calvin stopped mid-chew, his face flushed. ‘Guy Phelps, the guy they’ve chosen to stand for Jack’s seat in the by-election. I met him at the Con Club last night.’ He picked a stray piece of lettuce out of his teeth. ‘You’re spending too much time on your own with that bloody cat. It was all over the breakfast news this morning.’

‘Guy Phelps?’

Calvin snorted. ‘Oh, come on. You must know him. Lay preacher, all family values, white starch and grey suit.’

Dora pulled a face. ‘I don’t think so. Mind you, whoever they choose will have a hard job.’

Calvin lifted an eyebrow. ‘Not this bloke, he’s pure twenty-four carat arsehole.’

Dora picked at the fish on her plate; the fennel garnish filled the air with the pungent aroma of aniseed. ‘You don’t like him, then?’

Calvin held up his hand in mock surrender. ‘Like? What’s to like? He’s another local boy, but he’s no Jack Rees. Phelps is perfect for politics. Jack was good because he wasn’t – square peg battling for the rights of round holes everywhere. No, this guy’s got no bloody soul, one hundred per cent party man. Surely you must know him?’

Dora pressed the fennel into pulp. ‘No, the name doesn’t ring a bell.’ She paused and looked out into the rain. ‘By the way, where is Lillian today?’

‘Got the decorators in. Getting her new flat organised. But she’s booked solid all next week.’

Dora smiled without humour. ‘She could prove to be a very expensive hobby, Calvin.’

He bristled and turned his attention back to his fish.

Dora left Calvin, still ruminating over coffee and liqueurs, at just after two, and was almost grateful to be back out in the rain. The water ran like a river in the gutters; not a taxi in sight. She glanced down at the clutch of letters in her hand; the raindrops were gently transforming Catiana’s makeshift address into a soft unreadable blur. If only it could stay that way. The envelopes felt like fragments of shrapnel. She stuffed them in her bag, opened her umbrella and set off stoically towards Gunners Terrace.

Dora hurried along the pavement, skirting the puddles; the wind buffeted the canvas. Filbert’s Restaurant was in a sedate Georgian crescent that, with the help of its neighbour and a master stroke of town planning, held the Fairbeach museum, the new library and the market square in parentheses. Perhaps it was the same fluke that created the vortex of air currents. At the corner of Green Street, a gust ran up behind her, ripping between the spokes, shredding the cover like a razor. She swore softly, backing into the wind to try and wrestle the umbrella into submission.

As she fought with the handle a car cut the corner and splashed her from head to foot. Cold water made her scream out in protest.

‘You miserable bastard,’ she snapped, hurling the brolly down onto the pavement. ‘You total and utter miserable shit!’

Eventually, soaked, cold and miserable, Dora let herself into the little ground-floor lobby of her flat. She had barely time to close the door before the girl from the shoe shop was tapping on the glass.

‘Hello. Mrs Hall?’

Dora forced a smile. ‘Hello, how are you today?’

The girl snorted. ‘Fed up with this weather, all this rain is driving me nuts, and the shop is really slow, no-one in their right mind wants to come out in this.’ She looked Dora up and down. ‘I just came to tell you we’ve got a builder coming round to look at the building. He called a couple of days ago, I’d forgot all about it –’

Dora grinned. ‘Not before time.’

The girl nodded. ‘Yeah, that’s what I said to him. He wanted to get into the flat. He came round after you’d gone out the other day. I told him we hadn’t got a key. He said he’d be back, all right?’

From upstairs Dora could hear her phone ringing. She looked at the girl and shrugged.

‘Sorry, duty calls. Thanks for the message. I’ll keep an eye out for him.’

Abandoning the girl, her dripping mac and ruined umbrella, Dora hurried up the stairs. Oscar bleated as she stepped over him on her way to the office and meowed in disgust as she ignored him and snatched up the receiver.

‘Hello?’ she gasped breathlessly.

‘Afternoon.’ Jon Melrose’s soft voice. ‘Didn’t mean to make you run.’

Dora slumped down into her chair, and smiled. ‘No problem, I’ve only just got in. How are you?’

‘I rang you this morning. Are you all right?’

Dora glanced around. ‘I think so, how about you?’

‘Fine. I wondered if you like fried chicken?’

Dora grinned. ‘Yes.’

‘Good, is around eight-ish still all right tonight?’

Dora nodded. ‘Fine.’

‘Great. I’ve got to go, I’ll see you later then.’

‘I’ll look forward to it.’

As she hung up, Oscar leapt into her lap and stared soulfully into her eyes, demanding she played fast and loose with the tin opener.

Dora spent all afternoon hoovering and cleaning right the way through the flat.

Fried chicken wasn’t exactly an explicit indication of what Jon had in mind. The more she thought about it the more complex it got. Was fried chicken an invitation to go out or had he planned that they stay in with a bucket of something greasy?

She glanced at the clock and then back at the bedroom mirror. What exactly did a woman wear for fried chicken in or out? The days of dates seemed long gone, and conjured up self-conscious memories of hours spent in front of the mirror, agonising over what to wear, panicking over what to talk about. Dora opened her make-up bag and peered inside – not an awful lot had changed there.

Since leaving Ray, she realised, she hadn’t actually been out with anyone. What had happened to all those years? It had never been part of her master plan not to have another relationship. It was simply that her freedom had cost too much to go looking for a compromise candidate to fill the gap Ray left in her life. After a while the gap had simply healed over.

Ironic really, she thought, tipping the lipsticks, eye shadows, little jars and tubes out onto the dressing table. Her everyday life was spent exploring the fictional boundaries of wild passion, while she spent every night alone with a neutered ginger tomcat.

It felt very odd putting on serious eye make-up. Turning the little pot of eye shadow over between her fingers, Dora looked at the faded label on the bottom. God alone knows where or when she had bought it. The surface was dry and crusty from lack of use.

It had taken most of the afternoon to decide what to wear. There had been a flurry of washing and tumble drying and ironing between Jon’s phone call and now. Eventually, Dora had settled on a delicate jade-green blouse, navy trousers and a long matching jacket. The jacket hung on the back of the bedroom door, on a hanger, in case fried chicken was out.

The flat, newly painted in patches, glistened unnaturally and there was a disconcerting whiff of pot-pourri spray polish in the air. She grimaced at her reflection, suddenly feeling extremely foolish. She was bound to drop grease on her best blouse. It would be hell to get out. After all, why the fuss? This was simply fried chicken with an old friend, nothing more, just a quiet meal for old times’ sake. She snorted, who was she trying to kid? She slipped the freshly ironed trousers and blouse on over her best bra and matching knickers, feeling about fifteen and just as uncertain.

Finally, gilding the lily with a touch of lipstick, she looped a pretty navy, peach and jade scarf around her shoulders and checked the clock again.

Did ‘about eight’ mean eight? Quarter to? Quarter past? Tying the scarf in a loose knot Dora went into the sitting room, flicked on the gas fire and stood nervously looking round, plumping cushions, tweaking things into submission.

Maybe the flat would look better with a few magazines around to make it look more homely? Sheila had tidied away most of the ambient chaos.

The drawers were stuffed with bits of paper, the odd spoon, cotton reels, cassette tapes, discarded cardis … Glancing at the cupboard, Dora considered the merits of holding back a tower of debris while trying to find something that said, ‘together woman, with contented satisfying lifestyle’. It didn’t do to look too needy.

In the kitchen cupboard were some magazines Sheila had brought to line Oscar’s cat litter tray, but the People’s Friend and the local church magazine weren’t exactly the image Dora had in mind. The decision was whipped away by the intercom bell ringing.

Dora glanced into the mirror one last time before hurrying into the office and pressing the call button. She stopped short of pushing the entry button – another thing she remembered about being fifteen was that it didn’t do to appear too eager either.

‘Hello?’ she said warmly.

There was an abstracted scuffling noise through the loudspeaker.

‘Is that you, Jon?’ Dora suddenly felt a tiny creeping tremor of disquiet. ‘Jon?’

She moved across to the office window and craned to see who was standing in the street below. In the twilight the street lights were still dull; it was impossible to see the door below, her view interrupted by the porch.

Another dark glittering thought made her gut contract – was the downstairs door locked? She desperately tried to remember. She’d arrived home soaked through to the skin, the girl from the shoe shop had followed her inside and then the phone had rung. Peering into the shadowy street below, Dora knew with a sickening certainty that the door downstairs was unlocked.

She stepped back to the intercom. ‘Who is this, please?’ Speaking more firmly now.

Nothing came over the speaker. She hurried into the hall and dropped the catch on the flat door, sliding the security chain on behind it. It would be simple to open it and look down the stairs but she didn’t want to contemplate what might be waiting outside.

A tight sick feeling lifted into her mouth. Images of Lillian Bliss’ animated handsome face filled her mind, memories of walking into the flat to find it wounded and in disarray. The sense of excited expectation trickled away like water. She shivered, letting the fear wash over her in uncomfortable shivering waves.

Back in the office, the little call button flashed brightly once more and then went dead. She hesitated for a second and hurried over to the office window, grateful she’d left the office lights off.

The twilight had leeched everything into a chilling monochrome, stripping the colour from the bricks and the hoardings. Under the street lights, a stockily built hunched figure hurried across from her side of the road, hood up, hands stuffed into his pockets. As he got to the far kerb he glanced back up at the flat. Dora stepped away from the window, but not before catching sight of his pale plump face, rendered anonymous by the light of the lamp above him.

When she looked again, he was gone, and the only thing she could hear was the manic rhythm of the pulse in her ears.

She stared into the street, wondering whether it would be better to go downstairs and lock the street door. A millisecond later, a car pulled up on the far side of the road and she sighed with relief as she recognised Jon Melrose climbing from the driver’s seat.

‘There was someone downstairs, a man,’ Dora said far too quickly as Jon stepped into the hallway. ‘Just before you arrived.’

Jon looked at her, dark eyes registering concern.

‘Are you all right?’ He glanced back over his shoulder into the dark stairwell. ‘Would you like me to go downstairs and take a look around?’

Dora swallowed down the metallic taste of fear. ‘He’s gone and I’m fine now. The intercom rang and I thought it was you.’

‘Did you see who it was?’

Dora shook her head. ‘I couldn’t see him clearly from the window. He’d got his hood up and he didn’t answer me when I asked him who he was.’ She laughed nervously. ‘I’m overreacting, aren’t I? It was probably just a mistake. He realised he’d got the wrong address and pushed off.’

Jon lifted an eyebrow. ‘Well, you’ve got me convinced,’ he said dryly.

Dora realised that it wouldn’t take a lot to make her cry. She looked up at him, trying to regain a sense of control. Her mind was full of disjointed jigsaw-piece thoughts.

‘The builder,’ she said flatly. ‘The girl downstairs from the shoe shop said the builder was coming round. It might have been him.’

So why hadn’t he spoken? Dora stopped again; for some reason something Calvin had said over lunch appeared in her mind.

‘I can’t find my diary either –’

John grinned at her. ‘Hang on a minute. Are these the cryptic clues?’

Dora frowned, sifting thoughts, looking for the straight edges, corners and bits of sky, trying to make some sort of sense of what she was feeling. ‘Why don’t you go through into the sitting room.’

She opened the kitchen door a fraction and then thought better of it. Her diary ought to be in the office. She turned round, ignoring Jon and threw open the office door.

Inside it was very still and unnaturally tidy. Her eyes worked along the shelves, touching spines. She looked around, eyes searching frantically for the slim maroon book, by the phone, on the directories, on the coffee table, working backwards and forwards from the doorway, coming to the same conclusion over again and over again. Her diary wasn’t there.

In the kitchen? She opened drawers frantically, turning over piles of accumulated junk, while on the kitchen unit beside her the kettle clicked off the boil. She didn’t notice Jon in the doorway.

‘What’s the matter?’

His voice surprised her. Dora stared up at him and realised with astonishment that she had forgotten he was there.

‘Something Calvin said. The people who broke into his office took his filofax, nothing else. My diary’s not here, either.’ She opened the fridge to take out a pint of milk and glanced into the freezer compartment – stranger things had happened.

‘Where was it?’

Dora pointed into the office. ‘Usually I keep it by the phone, but it’s not there now.’

Jon nodded. ‘And what? Keep appointments, pour out your soul?’

‘It’s mostly “dentist, two thirty”, that sort of thing. I keep them for years, so I don’t have to copy out phone numbers and things like –’ She stopped and headed back into the office. Above the doorway was a narrow shelf where she stacked diaries from previous years. It was a habit. Old numbers, old contacts, stacked away in Boots A5 diaries that went back to the 70s.

She wasn’t certain exactly what her expression said, but it made Jon hurry into the office to join her.

‘They’ve all gone,’ she said lamely, pointing upwards. ‘I kept all the old ones up there.’ Something icy shivered in her belly. The break-in wasn’t random; whoever had been there had come for a reason. Dora didn’t know whether that made it better or worse. Open-mouthed, she stared at Jon.

‘Did the fingerprint lads come in here?’

Dora shrugged. ‘I don’t know, I think they did the window, the door –’ She stopped, feeling dizzy. She could feel her colour draining.

Jon guided her back out into the hall. ‘Tell you what, I’ll arrange for someone to come and have a look at this in the morning. There’s not a lot we can do now.’

Dora was still staring at him. ‘I suppose not. I meant to ask you on the phone whether we were eating fried chicken in or out. Can I safely assume from the lack of chicken about your person we’re going out?’

Jon grinned. ‘I thought we’d go for a drink first.’

Dora nodded. ‘Good idea, I think I need one.’

Dora locked the street door with exaggerated care. She glanced around as Jon went across to his car, half expecting to see the man in the hood or worse. It was darker now and part of her was angry that she felt so vulnerable. Gunners Terrace seemed very quiet, very empty, strafed by a crossfire of dark shadows and street lights. She hurried to join Jon.

As they drew off, he looked at her. ‘Did you get the locks checked and ring up about a security window?’

‘Yes,’ she lied, and then fell silent.

Jon grinned. ‘Make sure you give the bloke a ring tomorrow.’

Dora watched the countryside peel off past the car, still annoyed with herself for reacting to one late-night caller and the missing diaries with such an overwhelming rush of fear. Seeing the lights of Keelside, she realised with a start that she hadn’t spoken since they’d driven out of Gunners Terrace and coughed, sorting through her thoughts to find something to say that didn’t sound inane, and failing.

‘At least it’s not raining.’

Jon glanced across at her. ‘I thought you’d gone to sleep.’

Dora grinned. ‘Sorry, I was thinking. What would someone want my diaries for?’

‘Information – you said they took Calvin Roberts’ filofax too.’

Dora let the silence wash over her again, tacking ideas and thoughts together at random, looking for patterns that looked right stitched side by side. Time and time again the patchwork formed the same image: Lillian Bliss.