A Chill Rain in January by LR Wright

just be humiliated. You’d be prosecuted. They’d send you to jail.”
    â€œOh, prosecuted—are you mad?” The wind was blowing harder now. Arbutus leaves clattered across the patio in a frenzy, chased by rain and seaspray. “I was a child,” said Zoe. She wanted to laugh, but she didn’t. “Prosecuted. Don’t be ridiculous.”
    Benjamin got out of the chair and stood next to her. “Zoe. They’ll check what you wrote in your diary—”
    Zoe turned around. “I told you,” she said coldly. “It is not a diary. I have never in my life kept a diary. Keeping a diary is a weak and feeble enterprise.”
    Benjamin stepped back. But he went on talking. “Believe me, Zoe. It’s very serious,” he said, stammering a little, as Zoe continued to stare at him. “You know it is. If I go to the police…” He took another step backward. “They’ll investigate, all right. They will.”
    I could move, thought Zoe, staring at him. Just pick up and move.
    But she had thoroughly enjoyed living here, these seven years. She had had every intention of remaining here for the rest of her life.
    Things simply cannot go on like this, she thought, with this idiot brother crawling out of the woodwork every time he goes broke or loses a spouse.
    â€œI need some time,” she said. “I have to think about it.”
    â€œThere’s really nothing to think about, though, Zoe, is there?” he said.
    He was hanging on to the back of that damn chair, she noticed, for dear life. Did he think she was going to go berserk and attack him with her fingernails, for heaven’s sake?
    â€œBenjamin,” she said firmly, “you’ve had my scribblers for—what, twenty years? More. You’ve had more than twenty years to read them, pore over them, think about what’s in them. Figure out how to use them.”
    She walked out of the living room and waited for him in the foyer.
    â€œI need some time,” she said, “to get used to this.” She opened the front door. “Get out of here. Come back in two days. And not a moment sooner.”

Chapter 13
    L ATE the following morning Cassandra Mitchell heard a loud knocking on her front door. She was immediately awake. As she hurried to the door, tying her robe, she told herself that it couldn’t be somebody from the hospital; they would phone if they needed to get in touch with her. But well-meaning people sometimes insisted on delivering bad news face to face, instead of impersonally over a telephone line, and when she pulled open the door she was praying that it wouldn’t be Alex Gillingham standing there.
    â€œThank God,” she said, when it turned out to be Karl Alberg.
    â€œI heard about your mother. How bad is it?”
    â€œI don’t know,” she said wearily. “I never know.”
    â€œMay I come in?”
    She stood back, and when he’d stepped across the threshold she closed the door and leaned against it.
    â€œI woke you up. I’m sorry.”
    â€œIt’s all right.” Cassandra combed her hair back from her forehead with her fingers. She couldn’t remember if she’d taken off her mascara before going to bed. Oh God there’s probably mascara all over my face, she thought, and then she remembered that of course she hadn’t put any on, not to rush off to the hospital in the dead of night.
    â€œHow about if I make you some coffee,” said Alberg, taking off his jacket.
    â€œI’d like that,” said Cassandra, feeling slightly cheered. Alberg took her by the elbow and led her into the living room.
    â€œThat smells nice,” she said, sniffing the air. “What is it?”
    â€œOh, it’s something one of my kids gave me. Aftershave lotion or something. I don’t know what the hell it is. You’re probably allergic to it.” He sat her down on the white leather