All Night Long

the tension that still gripped her. “I can’t swear that there wasn’t any dust on the key. If there was some, it was wiped off when I put it into my pocket.”
    “Tell me again why you didn’t show the key to Sam McPherson,” he said, his tone a little too neutral.
    Her mouth tightened. “Sam cut me some slack tonight because of the past and because half of Dunsley thinks I’m a walking case of post-traumatic stress disorder, even though they aren’t sure how to spell it.” She broke off when she saw an expression of startled surprise flash across his face. “What?”
    “Post-traumatic stress disorder?” he repeated in the same, very even tone.
    “That would be the fancy term. The bottom line is that there is a school of thought around here which holds that because of what happened when my parents died, I’m not what you’d call normal.”
    “Huh. Normal.”
    “It’s a technical term,” she said.
    “Right. Got it. Go on.”
    She swung around and paced out of the tiny kitchenette into the living room area.
    “The point is, although I knew that Sam probably wouldn’t throw me in jail because I let myself into the Webb house tonight, I wasn’t so sure how he would react if he found out I’d removed that key from Pamela’s old hiding place.”
    “I still don’t believe a damn word you’re saying.”
    She stopped and turned to face him. “That’s your problem, not mine.”
    “The hell it is. You have definitely become a very big problem for me. Why didn’t you tell McPherson about the key?”
    “Okay, okay.” She paused. “I have a hunch that Sam is looking for every possible excuse not to conduct an investigation into Pamela’s death. I was afraid he would either ignore the key or make it go away. Either way, I’d lose it.”

    To her surprise, Luke assumed a meditative air. “I’ll be damned. You think McPherson is cooperatin n a cover-up, don’t you?”
    “I have to assume that’s a possibility.” She straightened her shoulders. “I do know for a fact that Senator Webb doesn’t want an investigation. I also know that most people in this town are only too happy t ulfill any request that comes from a member of the Webb family.”
    “I keep hearing that.” Luke picked up his beer and drained the bottle. He set the empty on the counter and considered her for a long moment. “People really tell you that you’ve got post-traumatic stress disorder?”
    “That was the diagnosis I got when my aunt put me in counseling for a while after my parents died. Got the same diagnosis from a few other therapists over the years.”
    “Did the therapy do any good?”
    “A little.” She cleared her throat. “But it was generally agreed that I would not make any major improvement unless I learned to take a rational, adult view of the facts. I, uh, sort of refused to do that.”
    “Because you can’t or won’t accept the facts that were given to you,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
    “I refuse to believe that my father murdered my mother and then took his own life. It violates everythin ever knew or believed about him. The therapists said I won’t get any closure until I come to grips with reality.”
    “What did you tell the therapists?”
    “That the only thing that will ever give me anything approaching real closure is the truth.” She sighed.
    “I guess that sounds like your basic obsessed, dysfunctional personality talking, doesn’t it?”
    “Sure, but I can relate. My family slapped me with the same diagnosis about six months back.”
    She blinked a couple of times, absorbing that piece of data. “They did?”
    He shrugged. “Can’t say for sure they’re wrong. Got to admit, I’m a little different these days.”

    The iron ring of quiet certainty in his words shook her. She had never talked intimately to anyone else who had been stuck with the PTSD label, she thought.
    “Got a few rituals?” she asked tentatively. “Maybe some private rules that you go out of your way not to break even though you know other people might think you are a little strange?”
    “Like leaving the lights on all night?”
    She winced. “Yes.”
    “You bet.”
    “Get a little moody at times?” she pressed.
    “That, too.”
    “Have bad dreams now and again?”
    “Hey, who doesn’t?”
    “The way I look at it,” she said softly, “the line between normal and not-so-normal is a little murky at times.”
    “On that point I am in complete, one hundred percent agreement.”