Hot Flash by Carrie H. Johnson Page A

envelope she received might be about. She made it sound like there were goings-on I was not privy to, that someone who had known her twenty years ago was threatening her new life.
    I shuffled through the photographs. The photographs’ borders blurred when my brain took over and streamed images in front of my eyes like a flip book. I fast-forwarded and replayed the images in my head, searching for anything meaningful. Nothing. I drilled my memory pack, but a lobotomy would have served me better, I thought, waving a tearstained photograph of a battered Nareece from the cold case file.
    I dug my cell out of my briefcase and called Laughton again. Rather than make a lot of assumptions, I would ask questions. No answer made me crazy. I left a tenth message on his cell and home phones, refusing a pleading tone. I checked the clock on the cable box set on top of the television: 9:45. A moment of desperation attacked my gut. The pangs surrendered to Dulcey leaning on the bell as only she could. When I got up to answer the door, I realized I still had my coat on. I took it off on my way to the door and threw it on the couch.
    When I opened the door, Dulcey blew past me saying, “I know, I know, it’s late, and you’re working, you’re always working, so it’s time to take a break and sit with me. I can’t listen any more to them ladies at the shop talking up a storm about anything and everybody. Lord should deliver down a lightnin’ bolt, burn up all their behinds, and send ’em hollering for cover, gossiping and carrying on like ain’t no savin’ souls mornin’ comin’. They shoulda been long gone anyway. Acting like they don’t have homes to go to, families to care for.”
    I followed her in. The windstorm she made sent the contents of the file that were spread across the dining room table flying, her butt swaying like a giant pendulum. She caught sight of a photo on the table, stopped short, and backed up. She had her hairdressing case hanging on her back from a wide strap that lay across her chest and a shopping bag in her arms. She shifted the shopping bag and picked up the picture of Nareece, unconscious, beaten and bloodied, sprawled across her bed.
    â€œGirl, you told me about this before,” she said. “But I never imagined anything this bad.”
    I snatched the photo from her and gathered the papers from the floor and the table, shuffling them into a pile. “Don’t even go there. Bad enough I have to relive this nightmare, without you getting dragged in.”
    â€œWhat kind of mess you talkin’? Relive the nightmare? What’s that about?” She gave me about a second to respond, then said, “I’ve been in this from the git-go, so don’t start blocking me out now. I want to know what we’ve been talking about all these years. I want a full understanding.”
    â€œTrust me. You understand enough,” I said, stuffing the papers into my briefcase, avoiding her stare. She allowed me a smidgeon of latitude.
    â€œYou look like you need a little somethin’ somethin’, honey,” she crooned, moving on to the kitchen. I plopped into the chair. The opening and closing of drawers and cabinets and her ramblings echoed in my ears until no sound penetrated them.
    Next thing I knew, Dulcey was talking to me like I was deaf. “M, where are you?” She stood in front of me with a glass of wine. In a softer tone she said, “Here, honey, your favorite, or one of them anyway.” She cackled a bit. “I’m clueless since you’ve become such a wine connoisseur. ” Then she examined my hair, running her fingers up under my kitchen, you know that place at the nape of the neck where the nappiest and most resistant to change hair resides. “Looks like a sister didn’t come a moment too soon.” More cackling. She pulled out a chair opposite me and folded her legs under her with the grace