Blind Sight: A Novel by Terri Persons Page B

own massive mitts. “How about a cup of hot tea? It’s a special herbal blend for expectant moms. No caffeine.”
    “I’m good.” Bernadette examined the woman’s hands. Definitely large enough. No jewelry or tattoos but a rubber band around the left wrist.
    Graham went behind the front counter and slapped a clipboard and a handful of brochures on top of it. A pen in the shape of a candy cane was added to the pile. “I can sign you up for an informational appointment. How far along are you?”
    Bernadette: “I’m not—”
    “I can hook you up with some fantastic exercise wear that grows with you,” said the woman, ducking down behind the counter and digging around. “Let me get you a catalog. Where did I put it? I can’t remember anything, I swear. I have the worst memory.”
    “Stop her now, before I shoot her,” Bernadette whispered to Garcia.
    “I have exercise wear for kiddies, too. I offer postpartum classes for new moms and their babies … here it is. I knew I put it back here.”
    Garcia stepped up to the counter, leaned over it, and said in a low voice, “We need to talk privately, Ms. Graham.”
    Graham stood up with a catalog in her hand. She looked from Garcia to Bernadette and back to Garcia. “I apologize if I came on too—”
    “We’re with the FBI,” said Bernadette, more than happy to shut the woman up with a flash of her identification badge.
    The woman dropped the catalog on the counter. The gym teacher’s voice suddenly became demure and soft. “My office is in back.”
    Graham sat behind her desk with her hands resting atop a copy of Fit Pregnancy magazine. This month’s cover stories: “How to Select a Nursing Bra” and “Sex in the Third Trimester.” Graham nervously snapped the rubber band around her wrist. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? A soda?”
    “I’m good,” said Bernadette.
    “No thanks,” said Garcia.
    The agents sat on the opposite side of the desk on a set of webbed lawn chairs. The office was the size of a closet and felt as hot as an incubator. Its walls were tacked with posters of exercising women, many of them pregnant. Garcia’s eyes darted this way and that as he frantically searched for a focal point that wouldn’t get him into trouble. He settled on the paper decorations that were dangling from the ceiling. Stars, with five points.
    Bernadette tried to start off with small talk. “Business looks like it’s going good.”
    “It is,” Graham said, and snapped the rubber band.
    “Did you have an exercise studio in Vermont?” asked Garcia.
    “No. This is new for me.” She paused, snapped again, and asked, “Who told you I was from Vermont? Has someone been talking about me?”
    Instead of answering, Bernadette slid Lydia Dunton’s photo across the desk. “Have you seen this young lady around town recently?”
    Graham looked down and quickly looked up again. “No.”
    “Take your time,” said Garcia, his eyes finally surrendering to the object that was sitting on a corner of the woman’s desk: a model of a uterus. The cutaway was resting on its side, and harbored a curled fetus.
    Graham raised her hand to her throat. “The girl who was killed!”
    “That’s right,” said Bernadette.
    Snap . “Who suggested that I might know this girl? Why did you stop in here?”
    Garcia took the uterus off Graham’s desk and examined it as he spoke. “We’re going up and down the street with the picture. Saw all the gals through the window. Thought we’d take a chance. Maybe this young lady came by.”
    “News said she was pregnant,” Graham said evenly.
    “Yes,” Bernadette answered.
    “Maybe you should try the hospital,” Graham said.
    “Mind if we showed her picture to the ladies out on the floor?” asked Garcia. He took the fetus out of the model and set the empty uterus back on the desk. “Won’t take long.”
    “I really don’t want my clients to think I’m in some sort of trouble with the law. It could hurt my