THE MAZE by Catherine Counlter

“Oprah is on in the afternoon,” Judge Sherlock said. “Get a grip, Evelyn.”

“Oh, then it’s The Price Is Right. That’s a great show. I can guess the amounts of money better than those stupid contestants. Do turn it on, Lacey.”

It was down the rabbit hole, Lacey thought as she switched on the TV, then handed her mother the remote.

“You can leave now, Lacey, I’m not going to die. Your father didn’t hit me hard enough. I guess he couldn’t build up enough speed to get it done once and for all.”

“All right,” Lacey said. She leaned down and kissed her mother’s white cheek. “You take it easy, okay?”

“What? Oh yes, certainly. I’ll bet that powerboat with all that stuff on it costs exactly thirty-three thousand five hundred dollars.”

As Lacey walked from the room, she heard Bob Barker call out, “It’s thirty-four thousand!”

She wasn’t aware her father was there until he stepped into the elevator with her.

“I’ll see that she’s well taken care of. I’ve decided Mrs. Arch just isn’t keeping good enough control. She never should have let her get away like that. Also, after the new shrink sees her this afternoon, I’ll call and let you know what she says. I’ll tell you one thing, though. Right now she certainly doesn’t sound as if she wants any attention from me. She sounds as if she wants me hung up by my balls.”

“As you said, we’ll see.” She looked up at her handsome father, at the uncertainty and confusion in his eyes, at that stern set of his jaw. She lightly laid her hand on his forearm. “Take care, Dad. You don’t really think she’ll try to press charges?”

“Probably not. She’ll forget all about it by this afternoon. If she doesn’t, the cops will treat her gently and ask me to see that she has better care.”

“Dad, does Mother have money of her own?” “Yes, something in the neighborhood of four hundred thousand. It’s safely invested, has been for years. She’s never had to touch it. Why do you ask? Oh, I know. Your mother’s been claiming I married her for her money again. Not likely, Lacey.”

On a hunch, she called San Quentin from the airport. Belinda’s father, her mother’s first husband, Conal Francis, had been out of jail since the previous Monday. She pressed her forehead against the public phone booth. Where was Belinda’s father? Was he as crazy as her father had said he was?

She called Dillon from the plane and got his answering machine. He was probably at the gym. She’d surprise him. She could see him walking through the front door all sweaty and so beautiful she’d have to try to touch all of him at once, which was great fun but impossible. Suddenly, in her mind’s eye she saw him and Hannah in the shower. The jealous rage surprised her. She was breathing hard, wanting to yell, but the person seated next to her on the plane probably wouldn’t understand. It was in the past. Every woman he’d ever had sex with was in the past, just as Bobby Wellman and his yellow Jaguar were in her past. That made her smile.

It was raining hard in Washington, cold, creeping down into the forties, and utterly miserable. She couldn’t wait to get home. Home, she thought. It wasn’t her own town house, it was Dillon’s wonderful house, with the skylights that gave onto heaven. She got into the taxi at the head of the line and gave the black middle-aged driver directions.

“Bad night,” the driver said, giving her a huge white-toothed smile in the rearview mirror.

“I’m hoping the night is going to be a lot better than the day was,” she said.

“Pretty little gal like you, I hope it’s a hot date?”

“Yes, it is,” she said, grinning back. “In fact, I’m going to marry him.”

“This guy get lucky or what?”

“Oh yes.” She leaned back and closed her eyes. When the taxi pulled up in front of Dillon’s red brick house, she was asleep. The driver got out of the cab and walked to the front door. When Savich answered, the driver gave him a big grin.

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