Storm Gathering by Rene Gutteridge

bright pink lips flashed a smile as he walked in. “A little early, aren’t you, tiger?”
    “Scotch.”
    “What else is there, right?” Lisa fixed his drink.
    Above him, ESPN was showing highlights of foreign soccer. Mick wouldn’t need to be back at the school until three. He was going to have to come up with something to tell Coach Rynde. All he’d said earlier was there was an emergency.
    An emergency was a bit of an understatement.
    Lisa scooted the glass toward him. “You okay?”
    “Um . . . yeah. Fine. Hey, what time does Jimmy get here?”
    “Afternoon usually. Four or so.”
    “Thanks.” Mick avoided her eyes and stared into the drink that last night had erased his memory. Images and conversations floated near the edge, threatening to fall into darkness, wanting to be rescued. But they were too far away, like paper floating on the wind, darting and dashing but always elusive.
    Taylor had not mentioned a boyfriend that he could remember, but he had sensed great turmoil in her life.
    The smell of the scotch was foul in his nostrils. It reminded him of everything that went wrong last night . . . everything that was going wrong in his life. His body, nearly trembling with the desire to drink it, also forecasted the result of indulging.
    Licking his lips and looking at the drink as if it were a raging bull ready to gore him, Mick tried to be reasonable, tried to think like the rational man he thought lived deep inside him. “I can’t do this,” he whispered to himself.
    Lisa was at the other end of the bar mopping up a mess on the counter.
    He nudged the glass away from him a little, scratching at his brows with a fidgety finger. But his body nearly moaned in protest. With just one drink, he could be a little less on edge. His thumbnail tapped the side of the glass, flicking at it over and over again. His head screamed no! His body screamed yes! If someone could just saw him in half.
    “Here, let me help,” Lisa said suddenly. She took the glass and dumped the scotch in the sink. Her half smile and warm eyes told him she understood. “Now, get outta here, okay?”
    Relief flooded Mick’s body. “Thank you,” he said and slid off the barstool. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do for the rest of the day. But boredom always seemed to get him in trouble.

    There wasn’t a person in Taylor’s apartment standing around. Everybody had been assigned a task. So nobody noticed Shep examining pictures of Taylor Franks. But he did. And with great attention. He looked at every picture, every setting, every scene. He studied the picture of her mother, plump and matronly. Shep immediately noticed there were no pictures of a father around. It didn’t surprise him.
    He stared at the fallen pictures by the window, facedown and on the carpet. He addressed one of the crime-scene technicians, remembering the days before they were all mostly civilians. Times were changing. But he didn’t need any of it to bring about justice. “What do you make of those pictures?”
    “Definitely a result of someone climbing in through the window,” the technician said, pointing to them with fingers spread. “Just the way they are lying indicates it. We’ve gotten plenty of photos.” He knelt down to pick one up. After examining it, he showed it to Shep. “See this guy? Looks kind of old to be a boyfriend.”
    Shep scrutinized the picture. Taylor’s arms were wrapped around the man’s waist affectionately. Her eyes were bright. His eyes were dim. He studied his face. “A man with secrets.”
    The technician smiled. “Guess you’ll be finding out who this guy is. We’re going to bag these photos.”
    Shep nodded and turned to survey the room.
    Randy Prescott was walking down the hallway toward him. “Nothing out of order in the bedroom. Bed unmade, that’s all we noticed. We’ll need to find out if she makes her bed every morning.”
    “Her mother’s on the way,” Shep said, staring at the hallway walls as