A Fugitive Truth by Dana Cameron

A Fugitive Truth by Dana Cameron

By Dana Cameron

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But perhaps that’s just as well, she’s er, a bit, um, you know…” I cocked my head and smiled vaguely to encourage him, but apparently Jack thought better of it. He carefully replaced the batteries in his stereo, placing the old ones in the charger. “But Michael, he’s just come in now. He’s in the parlor, um, I guess. ” I considered it, then shook my head. “Thanks, but I don’t think I’m up to another long drive today. I’ll go for my walk, then unpack, get some rest. ” “Maybe next time. We have sort of a bathroom schedule for the morning,” he said, rubbing his hands together like a raccoon washing its food.

Shit, no smoking in this crypt. ” He sighed with galactic weariness. ” That nettled me—I always fancied myself as more than usually truthful and open-minded. ” Michael was unaffected by my tart response. ” He slunk back and resumed his place on the couch and once again, closed his eyes. “See you around, probably. ” I got my scarf as quickly as I could and shut the heavy door to the house firmly, trying to get a little distance between me and my new housemates. When I found myself hoping that this Faith person would be a little more normal than the other two, I reined in my thoughts.

I was startled by a man’s voice behind me. “I’m Henry Saunders, the head librarian. ” The man I faced was a few inches taller than I, and a few pounds lighter, but not weedy, with thinning blond hair and glasses. He was dressed, as are most of the men of my academic tribe, in chinos, a blue oxford shirt, and a tweed jacket. Unlike most of my colleagues, however, the jacket was nicely made out of good wool, and his tie was subtle, interesting, and not spotted with grease stains. Henry Saunders’s glasses weren’t the usual default gold wire rims, either, but a carefully chosen pair of French frames in a brown tortoiseshell that showed off some pretty compelling cheekbones.

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