Centaur of the Crime: Book One of 'Fantasy and Forensics' (Fantasy & Forensics 1) Read Online Free Page A

sounds of sobbing.
    I grasped the doorknob, turned it, pushed in.
    The all-weather bulb inside the garage hung from the rafters by a single paint-spattered cord. Daddy’s orange hunting vest was streaked with red. Dark, chokeberry red. An iron smell rolled off him and filled the room. His rifle lay propped up against the wall. Something that looked like a grayish-white nub of bone jutted out of the darkness of the garage chest freezer. Daddy knelt before the white, coffin-shaped chamber, shaking his head as he cried. A single tear hit the side of the freezer and slithered down over the raised silver letters on the side: KELVINATOR.
    “Oh, God, forgive me, forgive me,” Daddy sobbed. He clasped his hands together clumsily, trying to pray.
    I stepped forward into the garage. Daddy hadn’t noticed me yet, he was still talking to God. Now I was worried. What could be causing him such pain?
    “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I killed her. Dear God, I murdered her.”
    Whatever Daddy was concerned about, it had to do with whatever was in the chest freezer. The lid lay open, but the lip of the freezer was high up for my seven-year old frame. I stood on tiptoe, grabbed the top edge, and gazed down into the Kelvinator’s depths.
    My eyes went wide at what lay at the bottom.
     
     
    Chapter Four

     
    I woke with a start. The gray light of dawn came streaming through the window. No fog on the horizon, meaning that it was going to be hot enough to do a sidewalk pizza bake in downtown Los Angeles. I let the coffee brew while I showered again, and then dug into my closet for a not-too-badly ironed pair of Ann Taylor pants, a violet top, and some shoes in a color that wouldn’t clash. I considered for a moment, and then pulled out my favorite long-sleeved open cardigan. It was going to be a scorcher today, but I planned to work inside.
    Winter lives in the morgue.
    I poured myself a cup of Colombia’s finest and inhaled the blessedly caffeine-infused steam that curled up from my cup. I eyed the cordless phone on the kitchen counter, fingers itching to pick up the receiver. To give Daddy a call, ask him what he remembered about that day, that strange wintery day when I found him in the garage, bawling his eyes out.
    I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Like I said, it was a long, long time ago. Maybe I even dreamt that he’d been wearing a hunting outfit. We’d moved to the Chicago area when I was eight or nine. I never saw him express the slightest interest in sport hunting once we’d settled into our new home.
    I mean, for chrissake, he’d been an on-again, off-again vegan since I’d been in grade school. Why would he even want to go hunting? He had lots of other hobbies to occupy his time. Maybe I had dreamt all of it, the entire thing, out of whole cloth. I took a sip of coffee, determined to enjoy the rich burnt-umber flavor of the freshly ground beans.
    Then my mind did that weird clicking thing again, like it was some kind of spongy telephone switchboard that took its own sweet time connecting things together. Lots of hobbies to take up one’s time. The John Doe’s scale-patterned skin, which looked as if it belonged to Persephone, my roommate’s albino king snake.
    My roommate—whose name, I recalled, with a tingle of satisfaction, was ‘Joan’—had several hobbies. But her favorite one involved dressing up as a ‘wench’ for some medieval historical society. She hung out with the folks who ran the Renaissance Faires off the college campus.
    It wasn’t exactly my kind of crowd—give me modern dental care and indoor plumbing any day over Ye Olde Middle Ages—but I did enjoy the few times I went to their events. Jousting, carousing, medieval swordplay done by the men to impress the women. While I got a lot of attention from the guys, I lost interest. I think that happened around the time when I realized it was against the rules to get men to fight to the death for my favor.
    But here’s the deal: the