Blind Rage by Terri Persons

condo.”
    “Don’t forget the wine and bread and cheese.”
    He laughed gently. “Right.”
    “Actually, I can sit on the floor against the wall,” she said.
    “I don’t want you to do that; it’s filthy down here.”
    “No biggie,” she said, and headed for a corner of the room.
    “Wait.” Following her, he took off his trench coat and spread it out on the floor.
    She was both touched and amused by his gallant gesture. Looking down at the spot he’d prepared on the floor, she said, “I feel like I’m on a bad date. A really, really bad date that is about to get a lot worse.”
    “It’s not too late for the wine. Bottle of Ripple would be about right.”
    “My daddy warned me about boys like you,” she said, lowering herself onto the makeshift blanket. She stretched her legs out in front of her and leaned back against the wall.
    “I’m really sorry about this,” he said, gazing at her.
    “In case you haven’t noticed, I am not into high-end fashion.” She patted her thighs. “I get all my suits from the junior department. Wash and wear.”
    “That doesn’t make me feel any better.” He reached inside his blazer and produced a plastic bag the size of a sandwich. He squatted down next to her and stretched out his hand. “Here you go.”
    She stared at the bag without making a move to take it. “I’m afraid.”
    “Of what you’ll see?”
    “That I won’t see anything.”
    Fingering the plastic, he said, “We don’t have to do this today. I put pressure on you because I didn’t…”
    She reached out and took it from him. “Give me a minute to get in the mood.”
    “Whatever you want.”
    Bernadette unsealed the bag and tipped it upside down. A scarf the length of her arm spilled out onto her lap. It was olive-colored silk. Monica Taratino had gone missing in May, and Bernadette thought the color was subtle for a spring scarf. What had the young woman been thinking about the moment she put it on? Probably not her own mortality. The fabric smelled vaguely of a woman’s perfume. Had she dabbed it on to impress a particular man or to please herself? It was something spicy and Oriental and indulgent. “Opium,” Bernadette murmured.
    Garcia frowned. “Drugs are involved?”
    “No. She wore Opium perfume.” An elegant scent and a tasteful silk scarf. Despite her emotional problems, Monica Taratino had a touch of class. A sympathetic pang stabbed Bernadette’s gut, and she stared at the puddle of perfumed fabric resting in her lap, at once anxious and afraid to touch it.
    “What’s wrong?” he asked.
    “Nothing,” she said, and scooped up the scarf.
    She tightened her right fist around the silk, rested her hand in her lap, and closed her eyes. It was as quiet as an empty church. The only noise she heard was the sound of her own breathing and that of the man hunkered down inches from her. Inhaling deeply, she took in the basement’s stench. Rather than fight the dankness, she embraced it. The pit became her own private dungeon, a hell to which she’d been rightfully banished for her offenses. Practicing or not, she remained a Catholic and had no trouble coming up with a list of sins: Lusting after the man sharing the basement with her, a friend and boss she couldn’t and shouldn’t have. Letting her husband die by failing to spot his depression. Recklessly wielding an unnatural gift that she only vaguely understood.
    She exhaled slowly. Under her breath, she made her usual petition: “Lord, help me see clearly.”
     
     
     
    SHE OPENS HER eyes. The basement stonework melts away and is replaced by a wall of windows. Curtains cover the panes, but the fabric is so sheer she can see through them. It is night out, but a weak, white glow is seeping through the curtains. Is it moonlight? Streetlights? A yard light? Whatever it is, Bernadette wishes it was stronger. Between the poor illumination and her blurry sight, the room is a poorly focused black-and-white photo rather than a