A Scrying Shame by Donna White Glaser Page B

Marissa’s death vision. She tucked it into the palm of her hand.
    Detective O’Shea walked into the bedroom. Arie jumped in surprise and squeaked something that came out sounding like “eep.” A hank of sweaty hair fell into her face, and she suddenly remembered that, in her haste to get to work that morning, she’d forgotten her deodorant.
    O’Shea pulled out his notebook.
    Oh, crap.
    It wasn’t wariness Arie saw in Connor O’Shea’s eyes. Or was it? No, it was an absence of emotion, a neutral professional blankness that had encapsulated the detective like a thin layer of galvanized steel. That someone could have such complete control over his emotions made Arie shiver with superstitious awe.
    “Last night,” O’Shea began, “when you attended Marissa Mason’s funeral, you were seen talking to a gentleman. His name is Brant Stiles. Blond, blue eyes, about six feet. What do you know about him?”
    Arie felt her mouth fall open, an inherently unattractive look, she knew. “Brant? Is he a suspect?”
    “You know him?”
    Oh, more crap. He was serious.
    “I do.”
    An image of O’Shea taking his wedding vows inserted itself into Arie’s mind, and she almost giggled. She started to put her hand over her face and then remembered she was holding the key. For some reason—and it might not have been her own—she didn’t want O’Shea to see the key.
    “He’s my brother.”
    “Your brother,” O’Shea said. It wasn’t a question. Now his face did register something. His lips thinned briefly, and he looked off into some middle distance. “I thought you said you didn’t know Marissa Mason.”
    “I didn’t. I mean, I didn’t know I did. I only met her once, and it was two years ago. I didn’t recognize her from the little picture on her book, and the funeral was closed casket.”
    He finally showed an emotion. Unfortunately, it was incredulity.
    “They were engaged. Do you really expect me to believe you didn’t know her?”
    “I really didn’t.”
    Arie clung to the truth, even though she knew how ridiculous it sounded. But it was the truth. Besides, her mind was racing so fast she couldn’t have come up with a decent lie if her life depended on it.
    There was a long pause while they both assessed the new situation and took measure of the other. After a few moments, O’Shea nodded slightly to himself.
    “So you didn’t know Marissa Mason, even though you had met her at least once, and even though you say she was engaged to your brother for a period of time. You showed up at her funeral, even though you didn’t know her, out of some altruistic desire to care for the dead.”
    The words hung between them, adhering themselves to the bitter chemical smells and the underlying coppery odor of blood that still lingered in the room where Marissa Mason had died.
    Arie swallowed. Her mouth had grown so dry her lips were gummy. “I didn’t know her well enough to recognize her. I met her once, as you said, and it was over two years ago. Yes, she was engaged to my brother, but it was a secret engagement. Why do you think Brant has anything to do with this?”
    Without answering, O’Shea nodded again. He opened his notebook and said, “I’ll need your full name.”
    Arie was already shaking so hard she thought she might rattle the remaining floorboards loose. She took a deep breath and reminded herself that, whatever he had done to make O’Shea think he was guilty of murder, her boring, staid, predictable brother was not a killer.
    O’Shea was waiting. Reluctantly, she told him her full name—no initials this time—and endured the blank stare he gave her.
    “It’s a family name,” she whispered. “That’s why I just use the initials.”
    “I don’t blame you,” O’Shea said.
    It could have been a bonding moment. It wasn’t.
    “Address?”
    After Arie had answered all of the detective’s questions, the two stood in indecision. Arie’s heart knocked against her chest as if it were trying