"Nah. Forget about that. We got bigger fish to fry. You ain't gonna believe what I sniffed out at the big book house downtown."

"What?"

"Quite the place, the bibliotheque! They got more information in one building than you and me could fit in our heads, even if we started stuffing now and didn't stop for a hundred years. You ever thought about that, Kris?"

I yawned. "No, and I'm not about to start. Does this relate to Lauren?"

"The trick is to plow through all the useless stuff until you come to one tasty morsel, and that's not as easy as it sounds. Not even with all the high-powered computers and cross-referencing mumbo jumbo they got. Not by a longshot. I'm telling you, not just anyone can do it."

"Do what?"

"Matter of fact, almost couldn't myself. Strained my eyes so bad peering at the screen, started to cry. Ruth's been telling me I need new glasses, but what's she know? Next thing, she'll be buying me a shawl to go with my granny glasses. That'll be the day! She's half-deaf, but you don't see her pricing hearing aids."

"Surely," I said between clenched teeth, "you didn't call to discuss your eyesight."

"No, siree. Last time I checked, you weren't an optometrist," she said with a deep chuckle. "Speaking of, I plumb forgot to call them, the eye docs, when I was looking for Dr. W. Maybe on Monday, I'lla""

"Fran," I exclaimed, "the next word out of your mouth better be about what you found at the library, or I'm hanging up."

"Easy, testy!"

"I mean it!"

"All right already! Called to tell you Lauren had a brother. Poor shaver died the morning her mother bit the dust."

"I know. I talked to Lauren's ex-lover, Cecelia, and she told me he died from SIDS."

She snorted. "It was SIDS all right, but not in the way you think."

"What do you mean?"

"The name Fairchild's been bugging me, but I couldn't place it for the life of me. Spent all day digging through microfiche of old newspapers. Finally hit paydirt a few hours ago. Would've called you sooner, but Ruth dragged me to a chess club shindig."

I almost dropped the phone. "You read about this kid's death in the paper."

"Front page headline."

My stomach felt like it had a fist inside it, pounding. "Since when does a case of SIDS make the news?"

"Since Lauren's mother, one Nell Fairchild, killed her ten-month-old son, one Brian Fairchild."

"How?" I croaked.

"Seems he'd been fussy the night before, probably with colic, and early in the morning, the mother cracked. Hit the kid with an iron."

I covered my eyes and lowered my head. "Let me guess: She did this on her thirty-fifth birthday."

"You got it! After, locked herself in the garage and started the family stationwagon."

My next words were barely audible. "Where were Lauren and her sister Patrice when all this happened?"

"Good question. Newspaper accounts don't say precisely. Seems it was January, snow on the ground, and, here, let me read something."

In the pause that followed, I tried to catch my breath and slow my pounding heart.

Fran's calm, collected voice mixed with the sound of rustling papers. "Found this in the Denver Post the day after their deaths: 'Gilbert Fairchild arrived home at eight o'clock last night and found daughters Lauren, 9, and Patrice, 2, clad only in nightgowns and huddled in a backyard doghouse with Beau, the family's golden retriever, at their feet.'"

6.

By the time Fran and I hung up, I felt sick.

The mystery wasn't why Lauren Fairchild had killed herself at age thirty-five, but rather how she had survived the twenty-six years following her brother's murder and mother's suicide.

How much of this did her sister know?

Possibly all of it, but why hadn't she said anything at our initial appointment? Possibly none of it, and how would I break it to her?

Bracing for my client's ignorance, I had asked Fran to drop off a copy of the article at my office, a request she agreed to fulfill the next day.

An hour later, curled in bed with a cold, wet cloth on my forehead, the phone rang again.

Didn't Fran Green ever sleep? I reached for the receiver. "Hi, Fran."

"Kris, it's me."

"Ann? You sound funny, what's wrong?"

"David's in the emergency room at Denver Health."

I threw off the covers. "Who called you?"

"Dad. He's down there now."

"What'd he say?"

Her voice shook. "Paramedics found him an hour ago at his apartment. He's unconscious, and they think he's had a bunch of seizures."

"Oh my God!" I gulped. "Is Mom there?"

"I don't know. I hope not."

"I'll get dressed and be right over."

"No, wait. I'm not sure I want to go."

"Why not?" I rose from the bed, dragged the phone over to the bathroom, and began rummaging through a pile of clothes on the floor.

"I can't face it."

"Seeing David?"

"That, plus seeing Mom and Dad."

"All right," I said, planning rapidly as I retrieved a crumpled polo shirt, bike shorts, and a fairly clean pair of underwear. "I'll call Destiny and ask her to come get me. We'll stop by your house on the way to the hospital, and you can decide then, okay?"

"Yeah."

"He might be dying."

"I know," she said, no life in her words.

"See you soon."

"Bye."

I disconnected from Ann, dialed Destiny's number, and waited through ten long rings.

Her cheery voice interrupted the eleventh one. "Hi, Kris. I knew you'd miss me too much. Should I come over to your place, or do you want to come here?"

"Destiny, David's in the hospital. Can you come get me?"

"I'll be right there."

I hung up, grateful for her immediate, unwavering support. I dressed hurriedly, then sat in the darkened living room for a few minutes, my legs shaking, trying to slow my breathing. Right before I left the apartment, I dashed back into the bathroom and brushed my teeth.

I took the elevator down and stepped outside the building just as Destiny pulled into the circular driveway. I hopped in and told her what little I knew. In a light rain, we drove the mile to my sister's house.

We never discussed whether Ann would come with us, she simply joined us, and on the short ride to Denver Health, no one spoke.

We parked on the street south of the hospital and walked briskly toward the entrance, a nervous pace that almost propelled us past my mother, who stood between two parked ambulances, smoking a cigarette.

It had been almost six years since I had seen her, yet she looked the same, her rail-thin figure almost lost next to the bulk of her longtime friend Sharon. A few strands of gray poked through her brown, curly hair, and the trademark dark circles under her green eyes were visible beneath the cover of round, brown eyeglasses. She wore blue jeans with cuffs several fashion-styles too wide and a sweatshirt two sizes too large.

She didn't recognize me until, in a faltering voice, I called out, "Mom."

Startled, she turned, and Ann and I approached.

I pulled Destiny from the background, introduced her as my lover, then broke the silence that followed. "How is he?"

My mother shrugged, one hand shielding her glasses from the drizzle.

"Who found him?"

"The apartment manager."

"You called her?"

"Yes." She puffed on the cigarette, hand jerking. "I finally got ahold of her a few hours ago. He missed a doctor's appointment this morning, and the nurse called me. I tried to reach him all day. Finally, about nine o'clock, I called the police and asked them to do a welfare check, but they said there wasn't cause to believe he needed one."

"The manager found him and called the paramedics?"

"Yes."

"How long has he been having seizures?"

She folded her arms tight around her chest. "Probably off and on all day, maybe longer."

"Oh my God," I shivered.

Why hadn't I made the time to go to his apartment, to prevent his head from flopping side to side, to quiet his flailing arms?

As suddenly as these guilt-ridden thoughts raced through my mind, I blocked them. "How can they tell?"

"By the abrasions on his body." She glanced toward Destiny. "David's been having trouble with seizures for the last three months. They haven't been able to get them under control."

"We know," I said coldly, stealing her attention. "We see him every week. I'm going in." I turned around abruptly and walked away, Ann and Destiny close behind.

Before we could reach the door, Sharon caught up and pulled me aside. "Kris, I can't stay," she breathed into my ear. "I only came because someone needs to be here for your mother. I know you and she don't get along, but she needs your support right now. Can you take care of her?"

My chin dropped. "How?"

"She's very upset."

"Of course she is. My brother's dying."

Sharon strengthened her grip on my arm. "Not about David, about Martha. She doesn't think your dad's wife should be here. She and your brother aren't exactly friends, and it might upset him."

"But he's not conscious, right?"

"Not yet. Still, do you think you could talk to your father?"

"Now?"

"Yes. Could you ask him to have Martha leave?"

I had been here less than two minutes, and it had already begun, the same twisted family drama, relived against the backdrop of my brother's death bed.

I shook my head and took a deep breath, ready with the exhale to explain to Sharon that I couldn't fight my mother's battles.

Before I could bother, she hit me with a hateful sneer. "This family is so screwed up! I don't know why I bother. I've got problems of my own!"

Shaking, I watched her storm off. Destiny and Ann rejoined me, and we went inside, where an aide steered us to the "Ashe" waiting room, a ten by ten holding area temporarily assigned to the family and friends of David Ashe.