A Shattering Crime Read Online Free Page B

compete against Fifi’s bark. She may be small for an English bulldog—or so my vet tells me—but she has a bark that would send shivers of fear down a soldier’s spine.
    Friday, my kitten who was threatening to become an actual cat, let out an alarming yowl from somewhere on the main floor of the house then streaked down the steps like the little blizzard she was and came to a sliding stop beneath my worktable. I knew from past experience that she would crouch there, wide-eyed and motionless, until the dog quieted down and peace once again reigned.
    Grandy’s eyes lit from somewhere deep in his heart. “They’re here.” He pushed off from the table and clapped his hands together, rubbing his palms one against the other.
    He headed back up the stairs, predictable spring in his step. No matter how old my mom was, this was still his little girl coming home. His gleeful anticipation had grown greater as Mom’s arrival drew closer. What tasks he couldn’t do himself in preparation, he supervised as I performed, going so far as to direct where I should putFriday’s cat box when I moved it out of my bedroom—which Mom would be taking over for her visit—and into the little guest room to which I had been relegated.
    Sighing, I clicked the power switch on the soldering iron base to “Off.” Fifi’s bark had shifted subtly from protect to curious and Grandy was shouting hellos out the door. It was time I, too, headed up the stairs to greet my mother and her new husband.
    â€œWell, Friday,” I said, kneeling down to peer at her beneath the table. “Wish me luck.”
    I didn’t get a single mew out of her. I pretended her lack of response had more to do with being afraid of giving up her position and less to do with not giving a rat’s tail how well Ben and I did or did not get along.
    After switching off the radio that always played softly in the corner while I worked, I ran a hand over the tangle of corkscrew curls that passed for a hairdo, smoothed down the wrinkles in my sweatshirt, and headed up the stairs.
    It doesn’t take but a few seconds to climb the steps to the main floor of the house, and I didn’t think I’d been dragging my feet at all. But by the time I reached the living room, my mother was already through the front door. Fifi was doing her famous back-end wiggle of joy, tongue lolling half out of her mouth as Mom greeted her with the same lovey voice that people tended to use around infants.
    Of the many things I had been given when I adopted Fifi from her previous, short-term owner was a book akin to
Dog Ownership for Dolts
. I studied that manual in depth for the first two weeks Fifi was in the house whiningat Friday, stealing Grandy’s slippers, and carrying her water bowl from room to room. In my reading I learned dogs often were able to recognize members of their owner’s family even if they hadn’t met them before. This nicely explained Fifi being instantly enamored of my mother.
    And okay, even if Fifi lacked that skill or the theory of dogs recognizing family was bunk, I fully understood why she was instantly in love with my mother. My mom had that effect.
    â€œFifi, come,” I said.
    Fifi sat.
    My mother’s gaze met mine, and I shrugged as I walked toward her. “We’re working on it,” I said.
    Mom’s arms came around me in a fierce hug. “Georgia. I’m so happy to see you,” she said on a breath.
    â€œGlad you’re here,” I responded.
    I leaned back to look at her. While she hadn’t changed much since I had last seen her at her justice of the peace wedding, still I marveled at how she seemed to look more like Grandy every time I saw her. Or maybe it was because I was living daily with Grandy that I was finally seeing the resemblance—the same height and proud posture, same brown eyes, same “I see everything” expression intensified by narrow