Page 76 of Little Shattered Dreams

He set the loaf of bread he was holding on a plate and walked over to me. “I suppose I have a different way of looking at life and death than most people.”

“And what way would that be?”

“I don't think about life in terms of beginnings or endings. We're all here for a certain period of time. None of us know how long that is or when we're going to go. To me, what matters is making the most of what we have now, of each day and every moment within that day.”

“Are you saying the murders don’t bother you? Because to me, deaths like these are perfect examples of people being taken before their time.”

“Areyoubothered?”

“Answer the question,” I said

“I don’t like the way in which Quinn or Clara died. But the fact is they're at peace now. Whatever troubles they carried in this life won't matter in the next.”

“We have no idea what’s beyond this life,” I said. “How wouldyouknow if they’re at peace or not?”

“When you study creation, our existence, and who we are as it relates to the frequency of the earth and to each other, you tap into something far more elaborate than most people could ever comprehend.”

It sounded like gibberish nonsense, a way for him to deflect from the conversation we were having.

“I'm not here to talk about your theories on life,” I said.

“What are you here to talk about then? What’sreallytroubling you, Georgiana? Because I don't believe it's the fact that I am not taking these deaths as serious as you are.”

I knew what was troubling me, and why. “I get the feeling everyone here is keeping things from me.”

He crossed his arms and leaned back against the countertop. “I wonder … is that because everyone is keeping things from you? Or is it because you’ve told yourself they are?”

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“We lie to ourselves at times, tell stories, create narratives in our minds because we’ve felt something or thought something, and in order to understand it, we feel the need to put it somewhere. So we create our own truth, which is sometimes a version of the truth, but not the reality of it.”

I wanted to say I didn’t understand, didn’t interpret his meaning, but I did. I supposed there was a shred of truth to his words, and yes, I had told myself everyone was keeping something from me. I was almost certain most of them were.

“We need to talk about Sunday night,” I said.

He opened the refrigerator and removed some lunchmeat, cheese, and condiments. “I don’t know about you, but I need to eat. Care for a sandwich?”

“I’m fine.”

“Suit yourself.”

In truth, my stomach had been growling ever since I’d laid eyes on the sourdough bread. But I had bigger problems. Dinner could wait.

As Karl made himself a sandwich, I continued with my questions. “Sunday evening you and the rest of the staff were at Calvin’s place.”

“That’s right.”

“Calvin said something seemed to be bothering Clara that night, and she left early. Prior to saying goodnight, she was seen on the deck. One minute she was talking to you; the next, she walked out. You followed a few minutes later.”

“We were just having a discussion among friends.”

“About what?” I asked.

I could tell by the look on his face he didn’t want to elaborate on what they’d talked about. It was the first time his pleasant demeanor had changed, his face turning dour and serious.

“I’d rather not speak ill of the dead,” he said. “You know how I feel about that. Clara was a dear friend.”

“A dear friend who’s dead,” I said. “So please, answer my question.”

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