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Back The Silence of the Library Save as PDF
Chapters (50)
  1. COVER
  2. PRAISE FOR TITLES BY MIRANDA JAMES
  3. ALSO BY MIRANDA JAMES
  4. TITLE PAGE
  5. COPYRIGHT
  6. DEDICATION
  7. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  8. ONE
  9. TWO
  10. THREE
  11. FOUR
  12. FIVE
  13. SIX
  14. SEVEN
  15. EIGHT
  16. NINE
  17. TEN
  18. ELEVEN
  19. TWELVE
  20. THIRTEEN
  21. FOURTEEN
  22. FIFTEEN
  23. SIXTEEN
  24. SEVENTEEN
  25. EIGHTEEN
  26. NINETEEN
  27. TWENTY
  28. TWENTY-ONE
  29. TWENTY-TWO
  30. TWENTY-THREE
  31. TWENTY-FOUR
  32. TWENTY-FIVE
  33. TWENTY-SIX
  34. TWENTY-SEVEN
  35. TWENTY-EIGHT
  36. TWENTY-NINE
  37. THIRTY
  38. THIRTY-ONE
  39. THIRTY-TWO
  40. THIRTY-THREE
  41. THIRTY-FOUR
  42. THIRTY-FIVE
  43. THIRTY-SIX
  44. THIRTY-SEVEN
  45. THIRTY-EIGHT
  46. THIRTY-NINE
  47. FORTY
  48. AFTERWORD
  49. LETTER TO THE READER
  50. SPECIAL EXCERPT FROM BLESS HER DEAD LITTLE HEART

“It’s almost like he’s talking.” Again Mrs. Marter emitted that raucous laugh, and Diesel shifted back against me. “He’s a beautiful thing. Mother will eat him up with a spoon.”

“I’m Teresa Farmer, and this is Charlie Harris. We’re really looking forward to meeting Mrs. Cartwright.” Teresa spoke in a firm tone as Mrs. Marter had made no move to take us beyond the front hall.

Our hostess nodded. “Sure thing. Y’all come on through. Mother’s having a good day, and I know she’s anxious to talk to you.” She turned and headed down the hallway that divided the house. As we followed her, I glanced around and noted that the hardwood floor, where it wasn’t covered by rag rugs, shone with polish. The house had a pleasant smell, a light tang of citrus in the air. Whoever did the cleaning here appeared to be as meticulous as Azalea.

Thunder boomed directly over the house, or so it seemed, and the building shook. Diesel mewed anxiously, and I paused to calm him with a hand on his head.

Teresa and Mrs. Marter continued down the hall ahead of us and turned into a room on the left near the end of the corridor. I stepped into the doorway with Diesel by my legs, and I paused to get my first glimpse of my childhood idol. The room blazed with light—enough to make me blink—and several seconds passed before my eyes began to adjust. In addition to the overhead fixture, I counted seven lamps placed around the large sitting room, all glowing. The effect reminded me of family outings to the beach in Galveston with the summer sun that blazed without mercy. The glare was intimidating at first, and the resulting heat stifling. I could already feel the sweat on my forehead, and I knew my slightly damp clothing ought to dry quickly. I supposed, like many elderly people, Mrs. Cartwright liked the heat, but all these lights seemed an odd way to keep her warm.

Once I was able to focus, I spotted the reason for our visit ensconced on a sofa to my right, and my heart raced. This was a thrill I never expected to have. I absorbed as many details as I could without appearing rude.

Electra Barnes Cartwright, at nearly a century of life, appeared thin, but not unhealthily so. Clothed in trousers and a heavy cardigan over a collared blouse, neck swathed in a scarf, she looked ready for an outing. Dark glasses protected her eyes from the light, and her hennaed hair surprised me. I had expected—I realized—a fluffy, white-haired lady, but Electra Cartwright didn’t project that image.