Picture Perfect by Jodi Picoult Page B

smiled. “Maybe I should take you to the university today. Lock you in your dusty old office for an hour or two with your research, and then let Alex drag you kicking and screaming to Scotland.”
    Cassie felt her hand tighten around the knife she was holding. She had no more reason to believe Alex than she had to believe Ophelia, but she did. Cassie swallowed and placed the knife on the kitchen counter beside the cut strawberry. She ran her finger over a red puddle of juice and seeds; the heart of the fruit, the blood. “Why do you and Alex hate each other?” she asked again.
    Ophelia sighed. “Because Alex and I are too similar to get along. We’re at different levels, but we’re in the same business. We’re both obsessed with work. And we both want you to ourselves.”
    Cassie laughed, but the sound seemed to shatter the air around her. “That’s ludicrous,” she said. “You’re my friend. He’s my husband. There’s plenty of room in my life for both of you.”
    Ophelia leaned back against the center island, lifting her face to the skylight overhead. “Tell that to Alex,” she said. “From day one, he’s been trying to swallow you whole.”
    Â 
    A S IF HE HAD BEEN EAVESDROPPING , A LEX CAME BACK FROM AN ERRAND later that morning with a box full of bones. He pretended to stagger under its weight, walking toward Cassie. She sat at the kitchen table, leafing through photo albums, her eyes riveted to a faded picture of a blond boy. He was lean and sinewy, just at the edge of growing up, and his arm was looped over Cassie’s neck. She was thirteen, but there was none of that awkward teenage break between boys and girls distancing them. In fact, from the way the picture had been taken, it was difficult to tell where one of them stopped and the other began.
    Cassie did not look up, did not notice the wooden box with its scientific packing labels. “Alex,” she said, “where does Connor live now? Why don’t I keep in touch with him?”
    â€œI don’t know. He’s the only thing you’ve ever refused to talk about.”
    Cassie touched her finger to a fine line of flyaway hair coming off Connor’s cheek. “It must have been a fight. One of those stupid kids’ fights that you feel rotten about for years, but are still too embarrassed about to make right.”
    Alex pried open the box. “I doubt that. You’re a fanatic for picking up the pieces.” He tossed several small bone chips into the air, heavy and yellowed, and Cassie caught them like a practiced juggler. “And here,” he said, “are some pieces for you to pick up.”
    Alex spilled the contents of the box onto the dining room table, obliterating the facing pages of the open photo album. “Don’t say I never bring you anything,” he said, grinning.
    Cassie brushed away the soft cotton wool and newspaper used for transport, running her fingertips over the fifty or so fragments of bone. Each was labeled with India ink, left-sloping European handwriting marking the grave, the site, the date of discovery. “Oh, Alex,” she murmured. “Where did you get this?”
    â€œCambridge, England,” he said. “By way of Cornwall, according to the laboratory I bought it from.”
    â€œYou bought me a skull?”
    Alex ran a hand through his hair. “You don’t know what I had to go through to get them to let me take it home. I had to tell this Dr. Bother—”
    â€œDr. Botner ?”
    â€œWhoever—I had to make a huge ‘contribution,’ tell him who you were, and convince him that I was certain you’d wind up sending it back as a museum exhibit, instead of keeping it as a conversation piece in some actor’s home.” He absently picked up a piece of cotton wool and strung it apart like taffy. “And to keep it a secret , I had to negotiate this over the