Page 4 of Girl, Fractured

Frank slowly turned and caught a warped, elongated version of himself reflected in the refrigerator door.It twisted his features funhouse-mirror style; long shoulders, spaghetti legs, head like a loaf of bread.The light above reflected off the chrome handle of the freezer and it painted his eyes a deathly shade of pale.

White eyes.

Not like eyes at all.

For a disorienting moment, he wasn’t in his kitchen, but standing in a dead woman’s living room in 1976.

Because Frank Sullivan had his ownun.A case that refused classification and resisted the natural order of investigation-to-resolution.Unfinished.Unclosed.Unsolved.

The memory struck him with such intensity that Frank could see his fish-eye reflection in those woman’s eyes, smell the air freshener that still sprayed at automated intervals long after its owner had ceased to need such civilities.Frank always considered himself good at boxing up the past, but one box in particular had been leaking for as long as he could remember.

A soft thud from the living room yanked Frank from the grip of memory.

His heart kicked into action – the kind of arrhythmic flutter his cardiologist had warned him about, especially with the blood thinners still dissolving in his stomach.Frank’s hand moved instinctively to his hip, but he found only the elastic waistband of his pajama pants.Old habits died harder than old cops.

He yanked open the kitchen drawer where he kept the ‘utility’ items.Scissors, bottle opener, novelty bread knife.His fingers closed around a heavy flashlight - the old-school metal kind that could double as a blunt instrument.In his FBI days, they’d called these ‘informal interrogation aids.’

Frank edged back into the living room.His knees put up resistance, but adrenaline was a miracle drug that muted pain signals.He flattened himself against the wall.The living room was dark except for the eerie blue glow of the television, now playing some commercial for a miracle pillow guaranteed to prevent night sweats.

Probably nothing, Frank told himself.Things happened at his age.Things you didn’t remember doing but must have done, judging by the evidence in front of you.Like having a tumbler of whiskey on the coffee table when you didn’t remember making one.Or climbing into a pristine bed when you were sure you hadn’t made it that morning.

Everything in the living room looked fine.

No.One thing was off.

Even December nights were humid in Florida, but Frank could feel a cold breeze seeping in.

The patio door was open about three inches.

Frank moved closer and glanced at the lock mechanism.He always kept the door closed, but only locked it when he went to bed.

Had he left the door off the catch without realizing?He’d taken the trash out that way an hour ago, but on a night like this, he would have felt the cold air against his neck earlier than this.

Through the glass, he could see his small backyard illuminated by the security light that triggered with movement.The motion sensor hadn’t activated, which meant nothing larger than a raccoon had passed through its cone of detection.

Frank locked the door then scanned the familiar landscape of his living room.It all looked the same, yet slightly adjusted by a millimeter.It was all there: recliner, coffee table, three-seater sofa that he’d relegated to the far wall because company was rare these days.

Everything was where it should be.

But then the room suddenly erupted in sound.

It shocked Frank’s heart into another dangerous stutter.His fingers tightened around the flashlight as his cat jumped out from the other side of the recliner – a blind spot Frank hadn’t seen – and ran past his legs like a furry missile.The cat disappeared into the kitchen as Frank lumbered towards his recliner and found the remote discarded on the floor.He cursed that damn cat, but the blaring noise from the TV drowned out his complaints.

‘Stupid thing,’ Frank heard himself say as he lowered the volume.He breathed a sigh of relief.That explained the sound he’d heard.The damn cat had knocked the remote off the recliner.

Frank’s pulse gradually slowed as he willed his heart back to its prescribed rhythm.Seventy-three years had taught him the difference between a real threat and a cat-induced false alarm.Still, the blood pressure meds were fighting a losing battle tonight.

But it didn’t explain the patio door.

The thought had barely formed when movement caught his peripheral vision.

A shadow by the three-seater detached itself from deeper shadows.

Frank’s brain, still wired with thirty years of threat assessment, registered the details in snapshots: Dark clothing.Combat stance.Gloved hands wrapped around the grip of what looked like a .45.

No time to dive.No time to reach for the flashlight.No time to wonder how the motion sensors had failed or how the figure had remained so perfectly still as to become one with the darkness.

Frank’s muscles tensed, preparing for an evasive maneuver his body could no longer execute.His mind calculated angles, distances, probabilities.

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