Dreams and Demons

By Teresa van der Kraan

Conner Ellis, the escaped mental patient, and his murderous mother Doris are still at large, still obsessed with Dana. When a mysterious white Cadillac starts stalking her, Dana finds herself at the centre of a new mystery. Sharing a psychic bond with Doris, Dana is increasingly drawn towards a seemingly unconnected series of murders in America, where Virgil Hallows, a notorious serial killer, is on the loose. Though Dana cannot understand what is happening, she knows only that the events surrounding her, the people and forces closing in on her, are in some way connected to the terrible events happening abroad.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Teresa van der Kraan
• Release date: May 31, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005016715

Teresa van der Kraan

Teresa van der Kraan was born in Australia to European parents, and has been interested in writing fiction since a very young age. She has been involved since age 14 in local writing initiatives and centres in her home town of Armidale, NSW. As of 2014, Teresa undertook university study at the University of New England (UNE), graduating in 2018 with a Bachelors Degree majoring in International History. She completed her Honours degree in 2019, on the subject of veterans in Weimar Germany, and as of 2020 has begun writing her PhD thesis on German and Austrian fascism. In her free time, Teresa is a horror movie addict, and loves to spend time with friends and her cats.

Book preview

Doris & Dennis

Birch Street, located in the most tranquil suburb of Nis City, was home primarily to good, happy families, who lived out their day by day lives at the pinnacle of normalcy—and none seemed more normal than Doris Ellis, in number 20.

A single mother of one, Doris lived a peaceful, quiet life, was on good terms with all of her neighbours and attended church every week, dressed in her Sunday best and always accompanied by her teenage son, Conner.

Although cordial, the Ellises kept to themselves and were rarely sighted holding or attending parties. In spite of this low-key lifestyle, Doris and Conner had failed to deter the observations of Mrs Wendy Chennelly, who lived in the house directly opposite, and devoted whatever time she could spare to peering through her front window in the hope of spotting Doris gallivanting with a new man. So far, Doris had disappointed Mrs Chennelly; she was nowhere near as exciting as Mr Stevens in number 27, whom Mrs Chennelly suspected of having an extramarital affair, despite the fact that he was living not only with his wife and four children, but with his mother-in-law as well. Mrs Chennelly was definitely keeping a keen eye on that house.

But as for Doris, Mrs Chennelly rarely spotted her with anyone of interest, except for one very peculiar-looking man, who (as Mrs Chennelly was quick to realise) visited regularly —at least three times per week— and had done so ever since the Ellises had first moved to Birch Street, almost eighteen years ago.

Indeed, at a quarter to five on one breezy afternoon in March, Mrs Chennelly, comfortably ensconced upon her cushioned window seat, observed Doris’ visitor arrive: in a pitch-black car that looked as though it belonged to a funeral home.

Mrs Chennelly was knitting a sweater for her newborn granddaughter, but quickly set her craft aside, focusing her full attention on Doris’ odd friend, who was climbing out of his car, with —Mrs Chennelly’s heart leapt— a bouquet of flowers in hand.

Familiar with this odd man by sight alone, Mrs Chennelly had amused herself by assigning him the name ‘Charles’.

A thin, weedy man of around forty, Charles had a pallid, sallow face, sheets of greasy, lank black hair, and a nose longer than any Mrs Chennelly had ever seen in all her sixty-eight years. As usual, he was dressed very elegantly: in a formal suit, accompanied by a sleek pair of matching gloves and, protruding from his breast pocket, a single blood-red rose, adding a splash of colour to an otherwise black outfit.

Mrs Chennelly gripped her curtains, ready to yank them closed should Charles happen to glance around and spot her.

What do you want then, Charles? What of those flowers? Mrs Chennelly murmured to herself, as she watched Charles approach the porch of the Ellises’ house, holding his bouquet behind his back. There was something about Charles that made the hairs prickle upon the back of Mrs Chennelly’s neck, and she wondered what on earth could have possessed Doris Ellis to befriend him. Why, if a man like Charles turned up on her doorstep, Mrs Chennelly would slam the door in his face.

Of course Mrs Chennelly did not realise it, but the man whom she had dubbed ‘Charles’ was actually Dennis Fairweather: the most successful funeral director in Nis City. Even though there had been no recent deaths in the Ellis family, his reasons for visiting Doris upon this particular afternoon were grimmer than anything Mrs Chennelly could ever imagine.

Dennis Fairweather was not arriving on a matter of business; he was there because Doris had asked him to come, in order to discuss something that they had avoided speaking about for many years.

Ascending the steps of Doris’ white front porch, Fairweather raised his knuckle to knock upon the door, but it opened from within before he had the chance. Doris Ellis peered tensely over the threshold, her expression quickly transforming into a relieved smile.

Oh, so glad you could make it, Dennis, she said happily, pulling the door open completely.

Clothed in a stained kitchen apron over a lime-green dress, Doris Ellis was a plump, homely woman, with shoulder-length, reddish-brown hair and dimpled, chubby cheeks, which were now looking rather flushed.

My beloved, Fairweather murmured, taking Doris’ hand in his own gloved one, his free hand still holding the flowers behind his back. How beautiful you are. Blessed am I that you should request my company. I tarried not a moment when I received word.

Oh, come now, Dennis, Doris said modestly, as Fairweather, his eyes never straying from hers, sank into a low bow, kissing the back of her hand.

Now, now, there’s no need for that, dear. Doris was beginning to sound impatient as she eased her hand out of Fairweather’s grasp. You needn’t always treat me so extravagantly, Dennis. We have much more important matters to discuss this afternoon, you know. She glanced upward, adding in an undertone: You had best come inside quickly, dear. I think old Mrs Chennelly is watching.

Straightening up, Fairweather glanced idly over his shoulder at the opposing house, through the front window of which Doris’ nosy neighbour could be seen, peering suspiciously out from behind bright red and yellow checkered curtains.

Quite the busybody, that one, Doris said distastefully. I daresay there’s going to be quite a few new rumours flying around by tomorrow.

Trouble yourself not with such frivolity, replied Dennis Fairweather, apparently not half as concerned as Doris was with the gossipy antics of old Mrs Chennelly.

Fairweather turned back to Doris and raised his bouquet of flowers. Doris’ lips parted in a moment of surprise; now she knew why Mrs Chennelly had been staring.

From my garden, Fairweather said quietly, nourished by the dead. Through death, life may arise again, fleeting, albeit more beautiful than ever before. And there is none more deserving to bask in the orchids’ quiet grace than thee, my enchantress.

Doris gave a sigh as she accepted Fairweather’s orchids, which varied in colours of blue, purple and near black, and were fastened together with a length of silvery lace, tied in a bow around the stalks.

Oh, aren’t these lovely, Doris said fondly, lifting the orchids to her nose.

Doris had grown long used to Dennis’ repeated attempts to spark a mutual romance, and found him ever more tiresome for his efforts. Fairweather was there to serve in his capacity as a friend —and a friend alone— for Doris needed his support, not his love. Even so, Dennis still had to be admired for his tenacity: it had been almost twenty years, and he had not yet given up hope of wooing her.

Come inside, dear, Doris muttered, ushering Fairweather into the house and immediately closing the door behind him, to shield them from the prying eyes of Mrs Chennelly, who could be counted upon to resume her snooping as soon as the coast was clear.

Let’s go into the kitchen, Doris said distractedly. She chivvied Fairweather forward, down a long corridor, the right-hand wall of which was decorated with a neat line of framed photographs, all depicting Conner at a different stage of life, one for every year, dating from when he was no more than an infant, to the present day, towards the midsection of the hallway.

Fairweather came to a halt before the most recent of the photographs, in which an eighteen-year-old Conner, dressed very smartly, stood in front of a white backdrop, beaming at the camera, his usually scruffy hair neatly combed for the occasion.

How wonderfully he has grown, Fairweather remarked quietly, as his black eyes wandered over the face of the portrait.

Yes, hasn’t he just, Doris agreed, also surveying the photo with pride. She gave it a gentle tap with the bouquet of orchids. I took this one last July, on his birthday.

He is becoming a man now, Fairweather observed, and we must begin treating him as such.

Beside him, Doris’ lips tightened. I’m not quite sure what you mean…

Eventually, Doris, Fairweather said steadily, Conner must learn the truth of his past, for it is as great a part of him as it is of us. We have been foolish to linger for as long as we have, for every passing twelvemonth further distances Conner from the truth.

For a moment Doris looked likely to lash out at these words, but instead she merely placed her free hand on Fairweather’s shoulder and gave it a slight squeeze.

That’s not why I called you here today, Dennis. Her voice was calm, yet it failed to disguise her mounting impatience. Conner is not supposed to be exposed to any unnecessary stress, remember? It’s only going to aggravate his schizophrenia, and we certainly don’t want that, now do we, dear?

Your love for your son truly knows no bounds, muttered Fairweather, his black eyes tender as he turned back to Doris. So much have you sacrificed on his behalf thus far… Freeing himself from his black gloves, Fairweather raised his right hand to Doris’ face and brushed his fingers gently across her rosy cheek.

I see it within the depths of your eyes, he whispered. All the strength bestowed unto Conner detracts from your own soul, Doris. I cannot observe it. It pains me so.

Don’t be that way, Doris said firmly. There’s nothing wrong with me; I’m fine. She caught hold of his wrist.

Allow me to kiss you, breathed Fairweather, stroking his fingers tenderly over Doris’ lips, his eyes smouldering. For so many a year have I yearned to know you… as Tim once did…

Still gripping his wrist, Doris forced Fairweather’s hand away from her face, looking stern.

We’ve been over this umpteen times already, Dennis, she said crossly. "I simply don’t feel that way about you. You know it would never work. Now, do I have to remind you that we are here to talk about Conner?"

Forgive me, whispered Dennis, bowing his greasy head; he tucked his gloves neatly into a pocket lining the inside of his jacket, taking an oddly long time. You are a goddess, my beloved, he murmured to the floor, and it is only fitting that I worship thee from afar.

Doris rolled her eyes. "Oh Dennis, please, she groaned. You know I love you very much. I doubt I would have been able to make it this far without you. You’ve been like a father to Conner ever since he was born."

How I wish I could have been… Fairweather muttered, glancing back up at Conner’s photograph with deeply saddened eyes, …and yet it is a blessing that I am not. Ne’er would I wish Conner to bear the curse of my tainted bloodline.

Don’t you say such things, Dennis, scolded Doris, becoming ever more annoyed at having her time wasted in such a familiar fashion. "Conner would have been lucky to have you as a father."

Fairweather was silent, not looking away from Conner’s photograph. Finally, Doris took his elbow and proceeded without a word, steering him through a nearby sliding door and into a modest but exceptionally clean kitchen.

Afternoon sunlight streamed through a small window above the sink and fell in thick patches across a circular table situated exactly in the centre of the room, draped with a tartan cloth. Fairweather positioned himself in the darkest, least conspicuous corner of the kitchen: in between the magnet-laden refrigerator and the draining board, where he looked so out of place that Doris could not help but smile. Hiding her face from him, Doris then squatted to rummage in a low cupboard, searching for an appropriate container in which to house the orchids.

I sense a shadow, Doris, Fairweather said quietly, as Doris filled a vase with water. Though the sun may shine brightly without, this is a most grim day for all who walk this Earth. Virgil Hallows has been granted an early pardon from prison; I learnt of it by way of the radio. He will yet cause much death; of this I am certain.

There were several seconds of tense silence, broken only by the sound of water tinkling into the vase, before Doris replied somewhat irritably: There’s no need to overdramatise things, Dennis.

But Fairweather pushed on: I knew it not at first, but I realise now that your reasons for summoning me are most grave. We have much to discuss. Conner shall presently arrive, and I now believe it time to expose him to that which we have formally deemed unfit for his ears.

Just because Conner is eighteen now, Doris whispered, in a tone of repressed fury, "does not mean we should suddenly tell him everything. And there’s certainly no need to burden him with your problems, Dennis; with things that don’t even apply to him. He’s under enough stress already."

It is he who suffers most from our falsehoods, Fairweather calmly pointed out. And with each passing day it becomes ever more difficult for him to escape the web of slander in which we have encased him. We are wronging him, Doris, and have been doing so ever since his birth.

Her lips tightly pursed, Doris turned sharply from the sink and marched towards the table, slamming the vase of orchids down with such force that most of the water was expelled.

He’s better off not knowing! she fumed. I never intended to tell him the truth, and I stick by that decision!

Unfazed, Fairweather glanced down at the spilt water that was now soaking through Doris’ tablecloth. Conner ought to learn that his father still breathes, he said quietly.

Listen Dennis, Doris hissed, angrily snatching up several fallen orchids and dropping them unceremoniously back into the vase, if you’re having some sort of moral dilemma about this, then it’s your problem, and yours alone. I want nothing to do with Conner’s father, do you understand me? There was a moment of silence. Doris rounded on Fairweather, looking livid. "Do you understand me?" she repeated in a dangerous voice, her nostrils flaring.

I bear no concern for Mortimer Harrison, Fairweather replied coolly. But greatly do I fear for Conner. Ever since he was but a child he has idolised Tim Rorri Shoreman; created a face for he who is no more than a name.

I appreciate your concern, Doris replied testily, stomping back towards the sink and snatching up a green sponge from the draining board. But sometimes fantasy is better than reality. You of all people should understand that.

I do, said Fairweather simply. Yet I act of my own free will. Conner was ne’er given such a choice. It was we, Doris, not he, who decided to shun the truth of his father.

Doris moved back to the table and began to mop at the spilt water with the sponge, her breathing rugged.

"As long as Conner believes in me I can protect him, she said in a very strained voice. I refuse to put him in a position where he can get hurt. Doris wrung the soaking sponge out over the vase, squeezing so tightly that her knuckles whitened. The only thing that I can’t protect him from is… her lips tightened with fury, …Mortimer Harrison, that bastard!" she fiercely spat.

You must not burden yourself so unnecessarily, said Fairweather. Had Mortimer Harrison wished to ingratiate himself once more into your graces, and those of young Conner, he should have done so many a year ago, when still it was fitting.

Doris stood rigidly for a moment, growing ever tenser, breathing as hard as though she had just been running. Then, quite suddenly, she whipped around and hurled the sponge furiously at the sink.

Then why did he call me this morning?!! she bellowed at Fairweather. After nineteen years?!! Nineteen years!

Livid, Doris glared daggers at Dennis, as though holding him accountable for everything ill that was happening, whether it be Conner’s mental sickness, or Mortimer Harrison’s apparent decision to redeem himself by offering (nineteen years and five months too late) to drop by and meet his son for the first time.

Fairweather’s thin, pale lips parted very slightly as Doris’ revelation sank in; he did not flinch beneath her intimidating glare; he was too surprised for that.

Yes, that’s right! Doris shouted at the stunned expression on Fairweather’s face. "How dare he!"

You exchanged words with Mortimer Harrison? Fairweather asked, finding his voice at last, his black eyebrows furrowing.

Hardly! scoffed Doris. She angrily sat down on one of the four chairs surrounding the table, scowling. As soon as I realised who it was, she continued heatedly, I hung up. I am not going to allow that despicable excuse-for-a-man to ruin Conner’s life the way he ruined mine! The only thing I said to him was— Doris forced her voice into a tone of strained sweetness: "‘Mort, it’s lovely to hear from you, dear, but if you ever call here again, or if you ever come anywhere near Conner and try to destroy the world I’ve built for him, I am going to cut you so many times that when the police finally find what’s left of your body, they won’t even recognise you as human.’ And then I hung up."

As though expecting him to applaud her, Doris glanced upward at Fairweather, her face splitting into a large, syrupy smile that still failed to disguise an intense loathing in her eyes.

So you see, Dennis, Doris simpered, that’s why I’ve decided that it’s high time to kill Mortimer. He’s already overstepped his boundaries, as far as I’m concerned. He’s putting Conner in jeopardy.

Doris, Fairweather said seriously, approaching the table, none loathe Mortimer as greatly as I, yet I am wholeheartedly against this. In time death will claim his soul, as it claims those of all who walk this earth. And when that glorious day comes, I, should I still be among the living, will smile and spit upon his lonesome grave. But until then—

Well, I want that day to come soon! Doris interrupted hotly. I want you to live to spit on his grave!

"Until then, Fairweather pressed on, we must bide our time. For it is not our place to interfere with the ever-wavering dance between death and life. He looked at Doris with a slight air of urgency. Do you not understand, my love?"

Yes, Doris replied coolly. Thank you for your opinion, Dennis. But my mind is already made up. Lowering her voice to a strained hiss, she added: "You have no idea how far I’m prepared to go to preserve Tim Rorri Shoreman for Conner."

Fairweather hesitated, taken aback, his sleek black eyebrows contracting into a well-worn frown. …If it will deter you, he said reluctantly, …I will yield to your plea that Conner remain oblivious.

Doris pursed her lips very tightly; Fairweather was attempting to the best of his ability to calm her, yet he was succeeding only in making her angrier still.

"You’re going to have to yield to my plea anyway, Doris snapped. Because I’m simply not prepared to take ‘no’ for an answer as far as my son is concerned. And there’s nothing you can say to stop me from killing Mortimer," she added promptly, as Fairweather opened his mouth in objection.

Doris, he begged, it is not our place—

"I’ve told you: save your breath," snarled Doris.

But Fairweather did not back down. You must act not upon mere loathing. There is no doubt within my mind that we have heard the last from Mortimer. You know as well as I that he wishes naught to do with us, nor has he ever.

It doesn’t matter, Doris said haughtily, waving her hand to dismiss Fairweather’s protests. What has to be done, has to be done, I’m afraid.

Doris— Fairweather began in exasperation, but Doris cut him off at once: That’s all there is to it! I don’t want to discuss this any further!

But it makes no sense that you should—

"It may shock you to know, Dennis, Doris interrupted loudly, now sounding on the verge of hysteria, that I sent Conner just this morning to buy a gun, which I eventually plan to use to kill Mortimer!"

A long moment of silence ensued, during which Fairweather merely stared at Doris, who was suddenly looking utterly deranged, her eyes popping madly, her face contorted with animated delight. She looked a far cry from the kind, homely woman Fairweather had known.

Yes, that’s right! Doris shrieked in a peal of vindictive laughter. "I AM going to kill him! Rest assured!"

Fairweather was still watching her in a state of quiet disbelief, his usually expressionless face overcome with shock. It took him a while to recover his voice.

Doris– you cannot! he spluttered at last, pulling a nearby chair sharply forward and hurriedly sitting down upon it. He faced Doris across the table, over the vase of orchids. Surely you mock me? Fairweather whispered in desperation.

Still chortling softly, Doris nudged the vase of orchids to one side, providing herself with a better view of the astounded Fairweather.

Would you care for an Anzac biscuit, Dennis? she asked pleasantly, as though instantly recovering from the intense rage that had nearly overwhelmed her just a moment ago. I baked a fresh batch just this morning. Smiling vapidly, Doris pointed in the direction of a large blue biscuit tin situated atop the counter behind her.

You’d better be quick, though; Conner will be home soon, and he may be bringing a friend. I expect they’ll gobble them all up. Her eyes crinkled into a warm smile.

You do not jest, Fairweather murmured, frowning at Doris over the top of his projecting nose, as though seeing her properly for the first time in his life. Such determination do I see in your eyes…

Still smiling in a vacant and syrupy fashion, Doris rose from the table, muttering: Well, if you don’t want an Anzac biscuit, there’s all the more for me, I suppose.

But Fairweather was not interested in Anzac biscuits. But do you not jest, he demanded, when you say that you have sent Conner to purchase a gun?

I trust Conner absolutely, Doris replied.

Then… of what have you told him? Fairweather asked cautiously. …Surely… he knows not of—

No, Doris interjected sharply, her voice becoming distinctly impatient once again. "My whole reason for doing this is so he doesn’t find out about his real father." Gripping the blue biscuit tin in both hands, Doris turned back to Fairweather, who was still seated at the table, watching her with a benign, almost childlike expression of confusion.

Conner thinks he’s buying the gun for security reasons, Doris explained, in as patient a tone as she could manage. "So we can feel safer at home—and yes, Dennis, I know that guns are illegal," she added quickly, for Fairweather showed every sign of interrupting.

Doris raised one hand in the air, silencing him before he could speak. "But fortunately, she continued loudly, I’m quite well acquainted with a nice gentlemen named Gregory Manfred, who happens to specialise in weaponry. I spoke with him just this morning, and he was more than happy to pull a couple of strings to get me a little gun. I sometimes feel a bit vulnerable being a single mum. We do get the occasional burglar in this neighbourhood, you know." Concluding her explanation, Doris beamed at Fairweather in the same irritatingly sweet fashion as before. He returned her stare, his mouth hanging open in astonishment; something that seemed to please Doris greatly.

It feels really good to get all that off my chest, she said with relief. You really are a wonderful friend, Dennis.

Striking up a cheerful whistle, Doris then turned and, reaching into an overhead cupboard, retrieved a couple of small plates, which she brought to the table, along with the biscuit tin.

You’re looking awfully skinny, dear, Doris said mildly, resuming her seat. I’m worried that maybe you’re not eating well enough. She pulled the lid from the tin, shaking her head slightly as she did so. All alone in that enormous house in the cemetery… You probably don’t even know how to look after yourself properly, Dennis.

I deserve not to feast upon the elixir of the living, Fairweather whispered, dully.

Nonsense, Doris said sternly, as she deposited several biscuits upon each of the plates. You’re going to have a couple of these, dear, and then if you’re still hungry, I’ll be happy to make you a sandwich.

…Thank you kindly, Doris, Fairweather murmured, humbly accepting the plate. …I thank you for your care… Blessed am I with the gift of your friendship. It is all that I have…

Oh, it’s no trouble, dear, beamed Doris, dusting crumbs from her fingers. I hope you like them. Umm… she glanced over her shoulder, apparently searching for something she had forgotten. Oh, yes, she recalled, would you care for some tea or coffee?

I ought not to linger, Fairweather muttered through a mouthful of biscuit. I wish to return to the morgue.

Oh, yes, of course you do, Doris said understandingly, smiling fondly at Dennis from across the table. I know how much you like it there.

Fairweather remained silent.

Seeming to have run out of things to say, Doris merely smiled. She and Fairweather remained in silence for a good five minutes, both of them eating the biscuits and listening to the sounds that drifted in through the open window: the squawking of a family of magpies that had taken up residence in one of Doris’ trees, the hum of an occasional passing car, and, from several houses over, the ongoing buzz of Mr Stevens’ lawnmower. Finally, when there was nothing more than crumbs left on their plates, Doris broke the silence between herself and Dennis.

…There’s just one more thing I’d like to talk about.

Fairweather glanced back at her, the impassive expression now fully reinstated upon his pale, pointed face. After all that Doris had already told him, he was prepared for just about anything.

…It’s– well, it’s about Conner, Doris disclosed. He’s– I’m not sure how to say this… but I think he’s gotten himself a girlfriend, Dennis.

Seemingly unperturbed, Fairweather knotted his spidery fingers together on the tabletop, taking his time in replying. Doris helped herself to another biscuit from the tin, acting as anxiously as though this new-found girlfriend of Conner’s was going to prove a threat to life itself.

…I realise, Doris, that your concern is great, Fairweather said eventually. But ne’er will Conner be as his father—for you have taught him what it is to love, and to be loved.

Thank you, said Doris, forcing a smile. "But I’m still concerned about Conner. I don’t want to see him get hurt. He seems to really like this girl… this woman. She’s a bit older than he is, you know," she added seriously.

…The only corruption from which you can never protect Conner, my beloved, Fairweather replied quietly, is that which is inflicted upon him by his own heart. He will be able neither to escape nor resist its insatiable lust for sorrow… as I cannot.

Finishing the last of her biscuit, Doris pursed her lips again. "Oh, it’s not all doom and gloom, Dennis, she said tetchily. What if this girlfriend —this Dana Smiths— actually likes Conner back? He could end up being very happy with her."

I will pray, whispered Fairweather, though never have I bel—

Conner’s a charming boy, snapped Doris, colouring. Of course she’ll like him! With a loud scraping noise, Doris pushed out her chair and stood up. I’ve just got to start coming to terms with the fact that Conner is becoming a grown-up now, that’s all, she blustered. I’ll have to get used to the idea of him going out with girls.

As must I, murmured Fairweather, following Doris’ example and also rising from his chair.

Refitting the lid, Doris returned the biscuit tin to its place, and then proceeded, even though it was not really necessary, to wipe the countertop down with a clean dishcloth.

I hope you’re not still upset about my plans to murder Conner’s father, she mildly remarked as she worked.

I am unable to sway your wishes, Dennis replied mechanically.

Yes, but I’d still like you to be happy with my decisions, muttered Doris.

Ne’er shall my lips breathe a word of your scheme beyond these walls, said Fairweather. You must act as you see fit, Doris, and should you ever be in need, I will offer my assistance willingly and without question—whatever you may require of me.

Thank you, dear, Doris said warmly, tucking the dishcloth into a pocket on the front of her apron. I knew I could trust you. Turning from the counter, she beamed at Dennis, delighted that he was prepared to support her despite his objections. Striding forward, Doris then took Fairweather’s arm in her own.

Now, I know you’re in a hurry, she simpered, giving his hand a gentle pat, but there’s still one thing I’d like you to take a look at, dear. Upstairs, in Conner’s room.

Answering with no more than a nod, Fairweather allowed Doris to steer him from the kitchen and back into the corridor. Here, Doris turned right, leading the way down the latter half of the hall, where the walls were still blank, reserved for photographs of the many birthdays that Conner was yet to celebrate.

Ascending a narrow flight of wooden stairs at the end of the corridor, Doris and Dennis arrived at the second floor, where Conner’s bedroom was located, through the door furthest from the mouth of the staircase.

I apologise for taking up so much of your time, Doris muttered, as she let herself into her son’s room, still leading Fairweather, who was by now utterly at a loss. Doris crossed to a large wooden wardrobe with clawed feet opposite the foot of Conner’s bed.

Beneath the many posters of musicians and football teams that Conner had plastered upon it, the wardrobe looked like an antique. Doris opened it to reveal a full-length mirror attached to the inside of the door.

Before Fairweather had a chance to ask why she was showing him this, Doris knelt down, leant forward, and extracted a slightly battered shoebox.

I found this yesterday when I was cleaning, she explained, setting the box down and beckoning for Fairweather to join her on the floor.

Compliantly, he dropped to his knees beside her and looked on in silence as Doris lifted the lid from the shoebox, revealing an assortment of objects, including a collection of folded, differently coloured memo slips, several photographs, and, hidden beneath the rest, something that looked suspiciously like a lock of hair.

I’m not happy about this at all, Doris muttered darkly, lifting one of the memos and unfolding it. Listen to this, Dennis. She read aloud: "From the womb to the tomb I’ll be your groom. Doris dropped the memo back into the box, looking upset. They’re all like that, she sighed. Different little stanzas. I’m sure he must have written them for that Dana." She scowled with disapproval.

We need not spare undue concern for Conner, said Fairweather, seeming far from shocked. Lazily, he reached for the lock of dirty-blonde hair (which had been tied with a purple ribbon to prevent it from splitting) and lifted it from the box.

"I’ve no idea where he got that," Doris said glumly, watching as Fairweather brushed the lock of hair across the underside of his enormous nose, inhaling the aroma.

…It can only be hers’, Fairweather whispered. …It has yet to age… her fragrance lingers upon it…

I’m not sure whether I ought to talk to Conner about this, Doris sighed, lifting one of the photographs from the box and unhappily turning it over.

I deem it not wise as of yet, replied Fairweather, unconcernedly.

Maybe… Doris grumbled. She directed her companion’s attention to the photograph. Look here. I guess this must be her. This ‘Dana’ I’ve been hearing so much about.

The picture that Doris held was quite overexposed, and Conner appeared to have taken it whilst holding the camera out at arm’s length in order to include himself in the shot. He grinned up at Doris and Dennis, his free arm clamped around the shoulders of a somewhat nervous-looking young woman whom Doris assumed to be Dana Smiths.

Her beauty is truly exquisite, Fairweather remarked softly.

Hmm… do you really think so? muttered Doris, coolly. I think she looks a bit plain, to be honest.

Fairweather returned the lock of hair to the shoebox. Do not judge the girl too harshly.

Doris gave a deep sigh of resolve. Yes, you’re right, Dennis, she admitted. I’m sure she’s a lovely girl. I owe it to Conner to give Dana a chance when he decides to bring her home to meet us.

I thank you, my love. That is all I ask, said Fairweather, standing up.

There’s also a picture of us, with Gabriel, Doris mildly let him know, her hand lingering on the edge of the box, her eyes straying hesitantly towards Fairweather, who, throughout the past nineteen years, had seldom been known to speak of his dead brother.

He took this photo, you know. Mortimer. I remember it, Doris’ tone was cold, though her eyes were pained. Gabriel was only eighteen… as old as Conner is now… Do you want to see it, Dennis? It must’ve been taken scarcely a week before Gabriel died…

I do not wish to see it, Fairweather replied shortly. I wish not to remember. Gabriel is at peace, and must remain thus. He stood in silence for a moment, watching Doris as she, somewhat reluctantly, returned the shoebox to its original hideaway at the back of the closet.

It pains me that I must now depart, Fairweather said presently; he appeared unsettled, no doubt by the reminder of his deceased brother, to whom, Doris knew, he had once been very close. Fairweather cleared his throat. Come dusk, I must attend a funeral.

Of course, mumbled Doris, as she withdrew from the wardrobe. Sorry to keep you for so long, Dennis. Enjoy the funeral.

After they had bid one another farewell, Dennis left for the Nis City Funeral Home in a hurry, leaving Doris standing beside her mailbox, lost in thought and gazing listlessly at the window of the house opposite, where Mrs Chennelly could still be seen, now preoccupied with knitting a tiny blue sweater.

Dusk was rapidly drawing near, and Doris was becoming concerned about Conner. She hoped that he had encountered no complications when purchasing the gun from Gregory Manfred in the morning before school, and that he would soon return home. Doris forced into submission the fear and anger of the day and concentrated all her willpower upon giving strength to Conner, in case he should need it. Turning back towards the house, Doris forced herself not to worry; Conner was a sensible boy, after all, and Doris had always had the utmost confidence in him.

Suddenly, a familiar voice called out: Hey Mum!

With a wave of relief, Doris whipped around; Conner was waving exuberantly at her as he approached along the sidewalk, accompanied by a tall, grinning boy, who sported bright red hair and a football jersey.

There you are! Doris said loudly, as soon as the two boys were close enough to hear her properly. About time, Conner! It’s getting dark and I was beginning to get worried.

Chapter One

Good Mourning

Three Years Later

The days after Doris Ellis’ attack at Springview Apartments were among the most difficult of Dana Smiths’ life. When she awoke on Sunday morning, almost a week after the encounter, vivid images of Doris Ellis and Dennis Fairweather lingered in her head.

For a good ten minutes, Dana lay on her back in bed, gazing blankly up at the beige ceiling and wondering if she had finally gone mad. She dared not glance at the clock on her bedside table; she had taken to sleeping in of late, and was not keen on finding out exactly how much of the morning she had already wasted. Even though it was still quite dark in her bedroom, Dana was sure that it must at least be past nine o’clock, as she could already hear the sounds of traffic on the street below, beyond the gentle pattering of rain against the window.

Groaning, Dana pressed her palms against her eyes, trying her best to block out the sights and sounds of the world around her, as she focused all her energy upon recalling the details of the dream she had been having. She could still see Doris Ellis and Dennis Fairweather as clearly as though she had been there with them.

Despite never having visited Birch Street, Dana now knew the name of the nosy old woman who had lived across from the Ellises at the time: Mrs Wendy Chennelly. Dana remembered the tiny blue sweater that Mrs Chennelly had been knitting for her granddaughter. She remembered that Fairweather had brought a bouquet of orchids. She remembered glimpsing the sorrow in Fairweather’s black eyes when he had looked upon the woman he loved and foreseen the ruthless monster she would become. But, most disturbingly of all, Dana remembered the contents of the box that Doris had discovered in Conner’s closet.

Dana felt her insides squirming. If, three years ago, she had had any idea that her seemingly harmless admirer was keeping a lock of her hair in a shoebox, she would probably have moved house and changed her name. She had only been out with Conner once, and could not for the life of her imagine how he had managed to cut off a segment of her ponytail without her noticing.

Propping herself up on one elbow, Dana ran her free hand over the back of her head, half expecting to discover a lock of hair missing.

She sighed, murmuring to herself: It doesn’t matter anymore.

Indeed, all of the concerns from her dream were now in the past; everything that Doris and Fairweather had been discussing at the kitchen table had already come to pass, though none of it had gone to plan.

Dana did not have time to be burdening herself with old concerns, for she had an array of brand new ones to fret about nowadays; one of them being the fact that Doris was choosing to share memories with her, as though expecting to sway Dana into sympathising with her unjustifiable excuse for vengeance.

Dana stretched out on her bed and gave a yawn, wishing that she could have slept longer, for she had wanted to see what she knew had been about to happen in her dream. Conner, in an outburst of madness brought about by his mother’s psychic influence, had been on the verge of whipping the gun from his pocket and shooting both Scott Preston and Doris, fatally in Doris’ case. Even so, Dana felt not so much as a shred of pity for Doris, and wished that her death had been permanent. If Doris really was trying to inspire pity in Dana by showing her these things, then she had failed miserably.

Doris had proved to be every bit as merciless as she had vowed. Even though she had not succeeded in killing her intended target, she had certainly made up for it by murdering two innocent people and hospitalising two others, not to mention stealing the body of Sophie Stanton in order to resurrect her own spirit in the flesh. The mere memory never failed to make Dana shudder, especially when she remembered that Doris was still out there, lying low for the moment, but still at large, living in Sophie Stanton’s body as comfortably as though it had always been her own.

The only bit of comfort Dana had found in her most recent dream was that Dennis Fairweather had at least tried to dissuade Doris from turning into the murderer she was destined to become. Despite this, Dana had no doubts that Fairweather’s loyalties remained exclusively with Doris. Wherever the Ellises were now, Dana could be sure that Dennis was there to support them in whatever manner he could, every step of the way.

Doris never would have been able to come back in the first place if it had not been for Fairweather, who, as Dana was convinced, had initially pushed Sophie down the staircase in her home, leading to her coma, and ultimately, death. Sophie’s fall seemed far too convenient to simply be a coincidence, yet Dana had absolutely no proof to support her certainties. Therefore, Fairweather remained innocent until proven guilty.

But Dana didn’t want to think about it anymore. She had already spent a whole week worrying about things that were beyond her control.

She was also becoming quite concerned about Conner, with whom she had expected to have had some sort of contact by now. Oddly, she had neither seen nor heard from him since last Monday morning. Conner had been extremely distraught at the time, having only just learnt of the reality of his past, including the true identity of his father, and the fact that he, Conner, had been his mother’s killer.

Dana now found herself wishing that she had some means of contacting Conner, so that she could reassure and convince him that he was not to blame for anything that had happened.

Dana groaned aloud, running her hands once again over her face, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She had rested soundly for at least nine hours, and could not understand why she still felt exhausted.

With an effort, Dana turned her head and finally glanced at her alarm clock, discovering that it was already sixteen minutes past ten: even later than she had feared. Groaning, Dana forced herself to get out of bed and face the day. Crossing to a door opposite her bed, she entered the cramped bathroom. She spent almost half an hour showering, and could well have stayed longer, had somebody else in the building not decided to turn on the cold water, giving her an abrupt scalding.

After she had dressed in a comfortable yet decrepit green sweater and a pair of old sweatpants, Dana made her way to the kitchen to fix herself some breakfast, securing her long blonde hair in its usual ponytail as she went.

Unfortunately, it had been several days since Dana’s last trip to the supermarket, and there was very little food to be had in the apartment. In the end, she had to make do with a plate of noodles, left over from the Chinese takeaway she had eaten the night before.

After heating her food in the microwave, Dana moved into the living room and seated herself in front of the television, toying with the idea of telephoning Tobias, but unsure whether it might still be too early.

Like Dana, Tobias appeared to have adopted a partially nocturnal lifestyle; he had been fast asleep when Dana had telephoned his flat at eleven o’clock the previous morning.

Dana gave a small, sad smile, unable to deny how greatly she missed Tobias.

Over the past week —indeed ever since their break-up— she had not seen him half as often as she would have liked; he had not even kept his promise to show her the large house he had inherited after Sophie’s death. For some reason Tobias seemed to be procrastinating about moving, even though it was common knowledge that he could barely stand the cramped flat in which he was currently living.

Dana gave herself a little shake and tried to focus her attention on the sitcom on television. But within less than a minute, her mind had strayed back to Tobias.

Dana seized the remote from atop the wooden coffee table and began hastily flipping through channels, on the hunt for a more engaging programme. Reaching the local news station, Dana caught a glimpse of a portly, bald man speaking to the camera, before she moved on to the next channel, a music network. Drearily, Dana looked for a moment upon an unfamiliar teenage pop singer, dancing energetically around on the screen. The next second, her stomach gave a sudden lurch, and, gasping aloud, she fumbled with the remote, desperate to return to the news station.

Dana stared wide-eyed as the portly, bald man reappeared. Sure enough, there could be no mistaking him: he was Dr Hugo Coemen, Conner’s former psychiatrist.

Seated behind a broad wooden desk, Dr Coemen was dressed in his usual tweed waistcoat, and was addressing the camera in a very grave manner, his large hands folded before him on the desktop.

…Regrettably, the matter is now beyond our control, he was saying carefully, as a caption appeared at the bottom of the screen, displaying his title and occupation. But I should like to take this opportunity to extend my deepest sympathies to the families and friends of Eliza White and Randy Green… and to anybody else affected in any way by this tragedy. It is my hope that the Institution will recover from this devastating blow, and of course… Glancing briefly downward, he sighed, …that Conner Ellis and his accomplice will be brought to justice.

Dr Coemen finished speaking, and his image was replaced by a distant shot of a large grouping of slate-grey buildings, which Dana recognised as the Nis City Psychiatric Institution.

Presently, a cool female voice-over began to speak: Ellis’ accomplice, whom police have failed as of yet to identify, is believed to be armed, and possibly still living within the confines of Nis City.

Dana frowned.

The reporter appeared on the screen a moment later, gripping a large microphone in one hand. Dressed smartly in a pinstripe business suit, she was a woman of around thirty-five, with a neat brunette bob haircut and a heavily powdered face. Standing before the wrought-iron front gates, she indicated towards the distant Institution behind her, as she continued: The grieving families of the two victims, Eliza White —aged thirty— and Randy Green —twenty-three— have decided not to press formal charges against the Nis City Psychiatric Institution, maintaining that the Institution cannot be held solely responsible for the tragedy, despite their lack of sufficient preventative security. She turned back to the camera to end the segment. Nis City News. I’m Gina Park.

Gina Park with that report, repeated a sombre male voice. The speaker appeared on the screen an instant later: a neatly groomed man in a navy-blue suit and tie, seated primly behind the news desk in the studio.

Dana’s mind began to drift as the newsreader moved on to subsequent stories: first something about a wanted American murderer named Virgil Hallows, then onto the world of sports and the enormous hype surrounding an upcoming match between ‘the two titan teams of football: The Median Saints and The Enforcers’.

Dana, having never in her life watched a complete football game (not even when Tobias, an avid sports fan, had been living with her) turned the TV off, her mind still swimming from the report about the murders at the Institution.

It had never occurred to her that the news of Eliza White and Randy Green’s deaths, and of Conner’s escape from the Institution, would become matters of citywide concern.

It was quite a shock to see Dr Coemen on television, and to hear a reporter mention Conner’s name. But what bothered Dana the most was the fact that, as this news report aired across the city, thousands of people were falling under the wrongful impression that Conner was some sort of bloodthirsty maniac, when in reality he was more like an innocent puppet, misrepresented by, and protecting his mother’s cruel hand.

Deciding she had lost her appetite, Dana dropped the remainder of her breakfast down on the coffee table and slumped back upon the couch, feeling suddenly older and more hopeless than she had ever felt before. After a minute or two of sitting in silence, Dana finally worked up the nerve to call Tobias, and was on the point of rising to retrieve the telephone from the dining table, when the doorbell gave an unexpected chime.

Dana rose from the sofa and shuffled towards the door.

Unlocking it, Dana discovered the visitor to be Gwen Palmer, her friend and neighbour: a slender, attractive young woman of part Middle Eastern descent, with dark skin and sleek deep-brown hair.

Gwen was looking vaguely tense, but seemed to relax at the sight of Dana.

’Bout time, Gwen said, her face breaking into a warm, but rather forced smile. I was just about to use my black belt in karate and kick the door down.

You’ve got a black belt in karate? Dana asked with amused scepticism.

Gwen looked up at the ceiling with a purposefully guilty expression on her face. …Well, I’ve got a black belt from… Target. She grinned. Forty percent off.

Dana gave an appreciative laugh, I guess that’s almost as good.

Although deeply thankful for Gwen’s company to distract her, Dana found herself wishing that she had dressed less shabbily, as Gwen, wearing a snug, casual pair of jeans, high-heeled boots and a half-length brown leather coat, was far outshining her in the fashion department.

I’m afraid I’m not looking very chic at the moment, Dana said sheepishly, feeling rather embarrassed as she attempted to scratch a hardened sauce stain from the front of her sweater.

Gwen gave a snort in response. That’s nothing, she said easily, indicating toward Dana’s faded green sweater. "You should see me first thing in the morning. Hair like Medusa and a temperament to match. Not a pretty sight. …Might explain why I still haven’t landed a man," she added thoughtfully.

Dana laughed, feeling herself relax.

Anyway, Gwen went on, digging her hands into the pockets of her coat, I know I’m being seriously predictable here, but I actually came to have a chin-wag about Martin.

Dana, having anticipated that the topic of Martin’s misfortune would surface sooner or later, pulled the door open wider and politely bid Gwen entrance to the apartment.

Striding over the threshold, Gwen paced slowly toward Dana’s pale blue sofa, looking as though she were harbouring a worry that she was having difficulty expressing.

Dana closed the door behind her, feeling mildly concerned. She could tell that the past week had treated Gwen with no more kindness than it had any of her other friends.

Martin Long, the young tenant of apartment 15 and Gwen’s best friend, was still in hospital, struggling through a concussion brought about by a violent blow, which Doris had inflicted to his head. Without fail, Gwen had been to see him twice a day, even though Martin, usually either asleep or semiconscious due to his condition, was unable to remember her visits.

"So… how is Martin?" Dana asked hesitantly, hoping that Gwen did not think her insensitive for only having visited Martin twice since the ‘accident’.

I’m glad you asked me that, Gwen said crisply, seating herself upon the sofa, because I’m finally done bringing bad news. Martin’s on the mend. She grinned broadly, I just came from the hospital, and hallelujah, he remembers us.

Really? Dana asked excitedly, her heart giving a leap of joy.

Yes, really, chuckled Gwen, absently placing her feet atop the coffee table, beside Dana’s plate of half-eaten noodles. "Don’t sound so surprised! Who could forget us?"

"Oh, that’s just wonderful!" Dana gushed, sincerely thankful that, after five lengthy days of worrying about Martin, she could finally be sure that he would make a full recovery.

It’s not like he’ll be up to skydiving anytime soon, Gwen went on casually, but he’s up, about, and off the painkillers.

That’s great, Dana said happily, as she felt a wonderful sensation of relief beginning to well inside her, like an expanding balloon. Do you know when he’ll be able to go home?

I’m an optimist, so I’ll say he’ll be good to go by this arvo, Gwen replied, tracing the sole of her left boot idly along the edge of the coffee table. I’m gonna bring him some clothes and pick him up around two, if you wanna come with.

Yes, I’d love to come, Gwen, Dana eagerly agreed, as she seated herself on the opposite end of the couch, feeling vaguely embarrassed by the presence of her dismal, half-eaten breakfast.

Gwen shifted herself in her seat, looking suddenly tense and uncomfortable, as though all her cheer and good humour had instantly abandoned her. ...The cops had better catch that evil bitch who did this to him, she said quietly, in a tone of cold anger, her jaw muscles flexing.

Dana hesitated briefly, unsure of how best to explain to Gwen that the Nis City police were unlikely to so much as successfully locate Doris, let alone capture her.

…Doris didn’t really want to hurt Martin, Dana pointed out at last. She wouldn’t have hit him at all if… if he hadn’t been trying to protect Mort.

Yeah, Gwen said coolly, that’s the part that really pisses me off. Because we all know that killing Mort would’ve qualified as a city service. So naturally, what ends up happening? Yeah– our hero Martin has to go and get himself hospitalised instead.

I know, sighed Dana, maintaining a mild tone, for she knew that Gwen had been privately seething at the injustice of the situation ever since Martin had been injured. It’s really unfair. But it could’ve been worse, Gwen.

"And, Gwen angrily pushed on, ignoring Dana, as if all that wasn’t already bad enough, guess who Martin wants to see now? No, it’s not Santa Claus, she added angrily, before Dana had a chance to speak, —it’s Mort. That slimeball. Martin wouldn’t even be in the hospital if it wasn’t for him."

Gwen, Dana said slowly, carefully, you’re being a bit unfair. Mort did not put Martin in hospital; you can’t blame him for everything. There wasn’t anything he could’ve done, you know.

Gwen looked hard at Dana for a moment, before she slumped back in her seat with an angry sigh, running one hand over her face and through her hair.

I s’pose, she conceded, with what appeared a tremendous effort. I’m— she sighed again, —I- I must just be having too much protein in my diet– I’m not really angry at Mort. Not any angrier than usual, I mean, she added, grudgingly.

Dana nodded, willing for the time being just to offer a friendly ear to Gwen’s concerns.

But I’ve got a right to be angry, Gwen went on in exasperation. "’Cause look– taking into consideration the fact that Martin practically saved Mort’s life, is it really too much to ask that he just visits him in hospital? Yeah, seriously, is it? Or am I crazy?"

Frowning hard, Dana began slowly: …But I remember seeing Mort there the day after—

Becoming rather flustered, Gwen quickly cut her off: "Yeah, OK, OK. To be fair, he was there the day after it happened. For like a microsecond. When Martin was still delirious, might I add."

There was another lengthy pause between the pair of them, Dana not quite knowing what to say next. She was sure that she knew why Mort’s recent failure to visit Martin in the hospital was irking Gwen to such an extent; a new complication was arising, and would soon have to be addressed. Understandably, Gwen was trying to avoid the unpleasant task of telling Martin about Mort’s twenty-one-year-old, long-lost son.

…You haven’t told Martin, have you? Dana ventured at last, to make certain. …You haven’t told him about Mort being Con— she swallowed, Conner’s father.

"Are you kidding? groaned Gwen, with renewed despair. Martin has to recover from his concussion before he’s ready for a complete mental breakdown."

Do you want me to tell him? Dana offered quietly, greatly hoping that Gwen’s answer would be ‘no’.

Gwen leant forward, placing her elbows on her knees and supporting her chin in her palms.

I may be an evil revenge freak, she muttered dryly, but sue me if I think Mort deserves to deliver the good news.

Well… I agree, muttered Dana, but I don’t think we have much of a choice. I honestly have no idea where Mort is. I haven’t seen him for several days…

Gwen, who seemed to have been relying solely upon Dana to shed light on Mortimer’s whereabouts, shook her head angrily.

Go figure, she muttered. I guess we can always rely on Mort to be unreliable.

Hmm… murmured Dana, who, if truth be told, was becoming increasingly concerned about Mort’s absence. Doris was out there somewhere, probably still plotting to hurt him, and, even though Mort had been known to disappear with friends for weeks at a time without any forewarning, Dana still could not be sure that he was safe, wherever he was.

I guess it’s up to us girls then, Gwen resolved. I’m not sure about you, Dana, but I tend not to encounter things like this on a day-to-day basis. What are we supposed to say?

We’ll think of something, Dana replied.

OK, how ‘bout this, proposed Gwen. She mocked: "Congrats on living, Marty. Oh, and by the way, remember that crazy guy, Conner? Well, he’s Mort’s long-lost son. Wanna grab a coffee?"

I’m sure Martin’s going to understand when we tell him, said Dana reassuringly. These things do happen, after all.

Gwen rolled her eyes, and said jokingly: Just make sure there’s one of those defibrillator things nearby, so we’ll be able to restart his heart.

Collecting her breakfast plate in one hand, Dana stood from the couch, smiling, yet knowing fully well that Martin was definitely not going to take the news in his stride.

It’s better that he finds out from us than from anybody else, Dana resolved at last, as Gwen followed her example and also rose from the sofa, because now that Conner knows about his father, I’m certain he’s not going to stay in hiding forever. Martin has to know what we’re up against.

Chapter Two

The Beginning of the End

Not more than ten minutes after Gwen had left, Dana received a much anticipated and most welcome telephone call from Tobias. He sounded happier than she had heard him in a long time, and proposed that she meet up with him for lunch.

Yes, I’d love that, Dana replied gratefully, supporting the telephone between her right ear and shoulder as she lent over the kitchen sink, rinsing dishes.

Great, said Tobias, pleased. So, where d’you wanna hook up, Dana? I was thinking The White and the Black. That OK with you? Or are you sick of that place?

No, The White and the Black will be fine, smiled Dana, transferring plates into the dishwasher with her right hand, and steadying the telephone with her left. But it’ll definitely be a relief to go there as a customer instead of a waitress.

Gee, that’s too bad, joked Tobias, feigning disappointment. I was hoping to trick you into making my lunch.

And why would you want to do that? Dana asked with a laugh, playing along. You know I’m not exactly a very good cook.

Yeah, well, you’re still the best of a bad lot, Tobias replied teasingly. I mean, you should see the crap I’ve been eating lately.

Depositing a final spoon into the dishwasher, Dana straightened up and leant back against the counter, wondering if it was now an appropriate time to confront Tobias about his plans for his newly inherited house, or whether it would be better to do so later, when they could