Perfect Trust: A Rowan Gant Investigation by M. R. Sellars

felt jumbled, but I was heartened that I actually had some
of them for a change. Unfortunately, I don’t really think that they
all belonged to me. Every now and then I would grapple with one of
the memories as it tumbled through my numbed consciousness,
inspecting it closely before it could get away. I was reasonably
certain that such thoughts as “which pair of shoes I should wear
with my new dress,” and “setting up an appointment to have my nails
done before the party” belonged to someone else entirely. It was
also a safe bet that said someone was female. What I was doing with
her memories I couldn’t say, but they were fading from existence as
quickly as they came in, and that wasn’t going to make it any
easier to figure out.
    There were, however, two things that kept
circulating around my muddled grey matter with an
uncharacteristically sharp clarity. One was a large glowing yellow
rectangle. The other was a particularly nasty, and relatively
familiar, burning sensation on the side of my neck coupled with a
feeling of utter helplessness and disorientation. I couldn’t quite
tell which of us should lay claim to this pair of thoughts. Until
recently I’d thought of them purely as my own. Now in retrospect, I
had to wonder. Of course, I suppose it was always possible that
they were being shared by both of us.
    I shifted uncomfortably in my seat and
continued to stare at the scene before me while pondering the
greater meaning of luminescent geometric shapes and inexplicable
pains. For the moment I resigned myself to the present situation in
hopes some thought of lesser obscurity would finally provide an
answer.
    The tableau beyond the slightly fogged window
strobed frantically with patches of red, blue, and white like an
insane outdoor disco. Strings of holiday lights entwined through
evergreen hedgerows were winking in and out of time with the
brighter flashes in a futile attempt to find dominance over the
darkness. I should have found the panorama saddening, but instead I
felt little empathy for much of anything.
    Flickering light bars mounted atop emergency
vehicles were things to which I was growing far too accustomed. I
reached this conclusion quickly with no resistance whatsoever from
my rational self. It was undeniable. There was a time, when
gathered in such an excessive number, the flashing beacons would
have reminded me of severe tragedy. At this particular moment,
however, they were simply an annoyance that my eyes were being
forced to contend with.
    Once upon a different time in my life a
garish slash of yellow crime scene tape would have insinuated
itself into my soul, bringing with it quick fear and deep sorrow.
Now, an example of that thin plastic barrier was close by, slowly
undulating on a cold winter breeze. In this instance it seemed
simply a part of the everyday landscape. At least that is how it
seemed to the me I had become.
    Even the squawking radios and idling engines
that tainted the night with their continuous disharmony seemed
nothing more than a normal slice of reality. They neither belonged
nor didn’t belong. They were very simply just there.
    The bare truth was that nothing mattered to
me now. Nothing but the yellow rectangle of light pouring through
the open door of the townhouse apartment, a haunting incandescent
spill that was being easily absorbed by a thirsty sponge of
darkness.
    Regrettably, it looked like I was going to
have to answer some serious questions before I got anywhere near
that doorway. At least that was the impression I was getting from
the stern look molded onto Detective Benjamin Storm’s features.
    I hadn’t seen my friend since meeting him for
breakfast earlier in the month. It wasn’t surprising really, what
with the holidays barreling in upon us—Chanukah had already
arrived, securing first place in a yearly contest; with Yule,
Christmas, and Kwanzaa lining up in the queue. Schedules were
tight—being full of parties, relatives, and even in light of