The Glass Butterfly by Louise Marley Page B

at it for a moment. Hadn’t it been full? His mother liked CUTCO knives, and he remembered her saving up for a set, filling every slot in the knife block. One of the slots was empty now. It was a small thing. He doubted anyone who didn’t know Tory would even notice. It probably didn’t mean anything. He’d find the knife somewhere else, or perhaps she had sent it in to be sharpened or something.
    In the pantry he gazed at the shelves full of coffee and sugar and pasta and cereal. He carried a bag of steel-cut oatmeal back into the kitchen. He was trying to judge from the label how long it would keep when he heard the sound.
    He reached out to flick off the television. He listened, hard.
    It came again, a click, as of glass on metal, a subtle sound that might have been the click of the furnace going off, or the house settling, or the oven still preheating.
    Jack’s skin prickled with sudden goose bumps. It wasn’t the furnace. It wasn’t the oven, either. Okay, big guy, he told himself silently. You said you’d be okay. Prove it.
    With a grimace, he took the marble rolling pin out of its holder, and hefted it in his hand. It wasn’t much, but it was something. He crossed the kitchen, opened the swinging door, and sidled through, letting it shut soundlessly behind him.
    He stood for a breathless moment in the darkened hallway. For long seconds he heard nothing. The rolling pin was cold and heavy in his hand, and he thought how foolish he was going to feel when he put it back—
    There it was again. It was louder this time, a lot louder. It came from Tory’s office, and it was followed by the unmistakable sound of the glass door sliding open.
    Jack drew a quick, shivery breath, and lunged for the door to the office. He banged it open, and palmed the light switch, the rolling pin at the ready and his heart hammering beneath his sweatshirt.
    The relief that washed through him left him weak in the knees. He was sure his face was white, and he had drawn a deep breath, prepared to shout at someone. Instead, what came out was scratchy and thin, more breath than sound. “Dammit! You scared the shit out of me!”
    It was the woman from the memorial service, the sheriff’s deputy. She was in uniform, her wide-brimmed hat pulled over her forehead, her gun belt drooping around her waist. She carried some sort of tool in her hand. She had one foot inside the sliding glass door, and her hand still rested on the latch. Her eyes widened, the pupils expanding in surprise. “Jack!” she exclaimed. “What the—I thought you were back at school!”
    She swiftly tucked the tool, a sort of flat metal thing, into her shirt pocket, then turned her back on him to shut the glass door.
    He let the rolling pin hang by his side. It felt huge and embarrassing, evidence of his nervousness. “You—what are you doing here?” he asked. His voice sounded high and childish.
    She turned back with deliberation, and it crossed his mind that she was choosing her words. The back of his neck tingled.
    â€œYou should be careful about locking this door,” she said.
    He made sure his voice dropped to the proper register. “I did lock it.”
    She shrugged her wide shoulders. “It was open.”
    It was an impasse. He repeated, “What are you doing here, officer?” He hadn’t spoken to a lot of cops, but he was pretty sure that was the right way to address her.
    She grinned now, and took off the hat, revealing short, brushy hair. “You can call me Ellice,” she said. “My name’s Ellice Gordon.” She took a look around the office, her glance pausing at the open file drawer, then resolutely continuing its circuit. “I just came up to make sure everything was okay here. I, uh, I saw the light from the road.”
    â€œI didn’t hear your car.”
    Ellice shrugged again. “I hiked up. It’s good to get out from behind the