Paper Tigers by Damien Angelica Walters Page A

turning beneath twisted sheets, Alison crept downstairs and hurried into the kitchen without looking at the album. Sunlight, detestable with its false cheer, was sneaking through the space between window and blinds. She made tea and toast, but after taking the first bite, an itch grew deep in the socket of her right eye. She brushed the crumbs from her hands, tilted her head down, and put pressure on the lower lid to reveal the bottom edge of the prosthetic, then dragged her finger sideways. The eye, a curved bit of plastic shaped to fit her rebuilt socket, slid out, dropping into her palm.
    In the beginning, she’d rubbed her eyes without thinking, dislodging the eye on a daily basis. She found it once in the sink, floating in a teacup of soapy water; another time at the top of the stairs, a grim memento resting on the wood. The eye, the iris painted a perfect match to her real one, served no purpose other than to improve her appearance. A token enhancement, at best; a poor joke, at worst. Maybe in a few years they’d develop one that could actually see.
    She finished eating and left the eye in the kitchen. Halfway to the stairs, she stopped and turned toward the album, still lying on the floor. She took one hesitant step closer. Then another. She wouldn’t retreat to the safety of her bedroom because of a stupid photo album. She stalked over. Picked it up.
    â€œNone of it was real,” she muttered as she flipped open the cover. “Right, George?”
    George’s eyes gave a silent, somber stare. With a grunt, she dropped the album on the table. George’s page lifted, offering a brief glimpse of the page and the edge of a photograph underneath before it settled back down.
    Using the tip of her finger, she turned the page by its corner. All the air rushed out as the page flipped over with ease to reveal the photo. A house, Victorian in style, captured in the same sepia tones, with a curved turret at one end rising high over the roof. The house held a presence, a sense of command, owing more to the long rectangular windows and the peaked roof than to the impressive size. Not quite a mansion, yet more than a mere house.
    Treetops heavy with leaves peeked above the roofline, a cluster of rosebushes with open blooms surrounded the porch, and a stone pathway led away from the front steps and disappeared off the picture. Alison inhaled a delicate trace of flowers.
    Dark shutters bordered all the windows save those on the top floor of the turret. The windows there had curved tops, half-moon shapes above lacy curtains. Ignoring the shake in her fingers, she held out her hand, lowered it onto the picture, and counted off the seconds in her head. She stopped at forty-five, but kept her hand in place. With a slight shake of her head, she briskly rubbed her upper arms.
    Let sleeping tigers lie.
    She stalked back into the kitchen and grabbed her phone, punching the number in for the shop with sharp jabs of her finger. After three shrill rings, a deep voice answered.
    â€œI’m not sure if you remember, but I stopped by last night with some questions about an item I purchased,” Alison said. “You told me to come back, but I wanted to find out—”
    â€œNo returns,” the man said.
    â€œI don’t want to return it. I wanted to find out if you knew where it came from.”
    â€œWhere it came from?”
    â€œYes, I bought an old photo album—”
    He chuckled. “People drop things off. They don’t want, so we take.”
    â€œYes, I know that, but I have some questions about the album, so I was hoping you could tell me who dropped it off. It’s an old album and was in the front window.”
    â€œI don’t know, maybe wife, she know,” he said. The phone gave a loud clunk. After a brief, muffled conversation, he returned. “Bring in, she look and see. Maybe know, maybe not.”
    The call disconnected. Alison dropped the phone on the table and