Tasting Fear by Shannon McKenna Page A

right out of the haunting ballad that Enid had just cut for the album, a song Nancy had finished helping mix in the studio only a few days ago. Of course, the oak in that particular folk song did break. The girl was left barefoot in the snow with an illegitimate baby in her arms. Just a little something to think about.
    She stared down at the ruined table, thinking about the vast sweep of history that it had seen. Lucia’s family line and this historic table had both come to an abrupt, violent end, here in this room, within a week of each other.
    As if the table could not exist without Lucia.
    One thought kept coming back, circling around and around in her mind. She opened her mouth, and voiced it. “He wasn’t satisfied the first time. He’s still angry.”
    Liam slanted her a cautious glance. “You think it’s the same person? From what the cop said, it’s a very different kind of crime.”
    She shook her head. Anything she said was going to sound like grief-stricken rambling. She pressed her hand hard against her mouth as she stared at the ruined table, painstakingly crafted by some nameless artisan hundreds of years ago—smashed by a brain-dead hoodlum.
    It felt as if someone had defaced Lucia’s grave. Ugly and vicious and very personal. She shuddered.
    Liam’s hand tightened. “Want to go outside? Get some air?”
    She snapped herself to attention. Shook her head.
    “I am so sorry,” he said. “It really was a beautiful thing.”
    She nodded, swallowing hard. “Yes, exactly. A thing. On the one hand, it’s a precious heirloom. On the other, it’s just a thing. Made out of old, carved oak wood. That’s all. I don’t know how to feel about it.”
    “You don’t have to choose. Both things can be true at once.”
    She was startled and moved by the comprehension in his eyes. She looked away quickly, but discovered that there was noplace to rest her eyes in that room that did not hurt to look upon.
    “I, uh…” He stopped himself, looking doubtful.
    “What?” she demanded.
    “I could try to repair it,” he said slowly. “I’ve done a lot of furniture restoration. My mother was into antiques. I wouldn’t expect payment for the labor. I’d consider it a privilege to work on that thing. But even so, you might be better off contacting a specialist.”
    She stared at him for a moment. “I accept,” she said.
    “Not so fast,” he warned. “I couldn’t make guarantees. It’ll never be the same as before. There’s a lot of damage, and it would take a while. With something like this, I’d go one splinter at a time. You’d better talk it over with your sisters and see if you—”
    “Yes,” she said, with flat finality. “I want you to do it.”
    He studied her face. “Well, whatever, then. I won’t hold you to it, though. Not until you talk to your sisters.”
    “I’ll hold you to it.” She glared, daring him to rescind his offer.
    “Uh, okay,” he murmured. “Whatever.”
    She was clutching his fingers with all her strength. Heat flooded into her face. She whipped her hand away. “Sorry.” She headed toward the kitchen. His light footfalls came after, crunching broken glass.
    The kitchen was just as bad. Cupboard doors had been torn off their hinges, the cupboards’ contents hurled to the floor with a violence that had shattered the floor tiles. The table was upended, the chairs were tossed, every dish was smashed. The garbage they’d forgotten had been dragged out from under the sink, the plastic bag slashed open, its contents spread wide.
    “Well. Guess I won’t have to go looking for any packing boxes,” Nancy said, her voice thin. It was such a silly thing to say. She clapped her hand over her mouth, stared down at the floor.
    That was when she saw it. A crumpled piece of white bond paper, and something written on it, in Lucia’s elegant, slanted antique handwriting. She snatched it up, heart thudding. Some helpful soul had swept up the garbage for her, and thrown away