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Untreed Reads - Polly Iyer

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259 pages

English

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Think about the worst moment in your life. A moment that changed irrevocably everything you've ever known. Would you take that moment back?What if that moment offers you a different life, allows you to do things you would never do otherwise? Meet people you would never know?Think again.That one moment transforms the lives of a dozen people, each keeping a secret they can never expose. A single thread ties them together. Inextricably and forever. Cut it, and someone dies.Now, would you take that moment back?

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Publié par	Untreed Reads
Date de parution	27 juin 2013
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781611879759
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0171€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Table of Contents
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
By

Polly Iyer

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or dead or to actual events or locales is coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.

Cover design by Polly Iyer

Threads
Copyright © 2013 by Polly Iyer
ISBN is 978-1-61187-975-9
Table of Contents
Chapter One
The Tall Dark Stranger
Chapter Two
Coffee or Tea
Chapter Three
First Meeting
Chapter Four
An Objective Step Back
Chapter Five
Wined and Dined and…
Chapter Six
A Rude Awakening
Chapter Seven
The Cold, Scary Truth
Chapter Eight
A Night with a Friend
Chapter Nine
Devastation
Chapter Ten
Revenge
Chapter Eleven
Advice in French
Chapter Twelve
Vengeance
Chapter Thirteen
A Tiny Tattoo
Chapter Fourteen
Prying into a Life
Chapter Fifteen
The True Story
Chapter Sixteen
One Last Try
Chapter Seventeen
Stakeout
Chapter Eighteen
The Truth Hurts
Chapter Nineteen
Case Closed
Chapter Twenty
Sleeping Beauty
Chapter Twenty-One
The Whole Truth and Nothing but the Truth
Chapter Twenty-Two
An Invasion of Privacy
Chapter Twenty-Three
In His Quiet Place
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Fog Descends
Chapter Twenty-Five
Brutal Reality
Chapter Twenty-Six
The Perfect Patient
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Proposition
Chapter Twenty-Eight
A Beautiful Day
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Who’s Life Is It Anyway?
Chapter Thirty
The Key
Chapter Thirty-One
The Fates
Chapter Thirty-Two
The Plan
Chapter Thirty-Three
A New Life
Chapter Thirty-Four
One More Secret
Chapter Thirty-Five
Confused and Bothered
Chapter Thirty-Six
Renewing Old Friendships
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Torture
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The Pass
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Confession
Chapter Forty
Back in Time
Chapter Forty-One
More
Chapter Forty-Two
A Change in the Air
Chapter Forty-Three
Dawn Breaks
Chapter Forty-Four
Loyalty Knows No Bounds
Chapter Forty-Five
The Phone Call
Chapter Forty-Six
Preparation
Chapter Forty-Seven
Under Cover of Night
Chapter Forty-Eight
The Devil Makes an Appearance
Chapter Forty-Nine
Still Waters
Chapter Fifty
The Gun
Chapter Fifty-One
A Shattering Moment
Chapter Fifty-Two
Substandard Operating Procedure
Chapter Fifty-Three
A Week Later
Chapter Fifty-Four
A Toast

BOSTON
Chapter One
The Tall Dark Stranger

“Abstract Expressionism.” Miranda wrinkled her nose. Monet, Degas, Renoir―they were artists she appreciated. Nothing abstract about them. So why was she going to the gallery opening of some no-name Canadian abstract expressionist? Simple. Because accepting Alan’s last-minute invitation seemed like a better idea than what she had planned for a Friday night. Absolutely nothing.
After rummaging through her wardrobe, she plucked a hanger from the closet. “You again. A girl can never go wrong with the little black dress.” She paused. “And you,” she said to the beaded jacket, a sale purchase from a shop on Newbury Street, “will add some pizzazz.”
Ten minutes later, the buzzer rang, and she scooted out the door. Alan leaned against the iron railing, looking, as always, like something off a Paris fashion runway.
“Breathtaking.” He latched on to her arm. “Love the jacket.”
“Do you? First time I’ve had a place to wear it.”
“I don’t understand why men aren’t flocking to you like groupies to rock stars. What’s wrong with these straight guys anyway?” He tapped his finger on what he always called her goyishe nose. “Men are afraid to ask beautiful women out because they think you’ll shoo them away like nasty flies.”
Miranda snorted. “Right. Poor guys. I’m so beautiful they’re afraid of me. That’s bullshit, Alan, and you know it.”
“Stop your damn swearing. Mr. Stanford is one of those holier-than-thou types. He might be a friend of your father’s, but one F-bomb and you’ll be out on your ass without a job.”
“Gee, and that’s my favorite swearword.” She flashed a teasing smile, and he punched her arm.
“You’re too much. Come on. There should be champagne at the gallery. After this week, we both could use a glass.”
“What would I do without you, BFF? You’re my ticket to all the trendy events in town.”
“And what would I do without you? You’re my cover. Selma would jump off the frigging Tobin Bridge if she found out I was gay. That’d be more Jewish guilt than I could handle.”
Miranda broke up. Poor Alan. He had the mother from hell, always prodding him to find a nice Jewish girl and give her grandchildren. That was never going to happen.
They walked the few blocks to Newbury Street, bracing against the late March wind, typical of Boston. She shivered. “Maybe I should have worn my winter coat. We might have passed into spring on the calendar, but spring didn’t get the memo.”
“Come here, girlfriend.” Alan wrapped his arm around her. “Would you look at this? Not a parking space in sight. I’d have torn out my hair if we’d driven.”
The artsy crowd packed the gallery’s opening night. Once inside, Alan grabbed two champagne flutes off the tray of a roaming waiter, giving him the eye and getting one back.
“Half the city’s here. Hey, check out that couple,” he whispered in Miranda’s ear. “I’ll tell you all about those two tomorrow. Scandalous. Clue―that’s not his wife. In fact,” Alan cupped his hand around her ear, “she’s not a she.”
“Huh? You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Oh, there’s Jeffrey. Mind if I go over and thank him for cluing us in on this?”
Miranda waved him on. “I’m a big girl, Alan. I can take care of myself.”
“Be right back.”
She stole another peek at the object of Alan’s gossip―sheesh, who’d’ve thought? After stopping to chat with a few acquaintances, she continued her stroll around the gallery, listening to varying reviews of the art.
The paintings, displayed on white walls with halogen spots, hung in three different abstract groups―figuratives, landscapes, and paintings the art world might describe as “what the fuck.” The artist had wielded his brush with thick, vibrant color, creating an impression of movement and energy. Miranda stood back, sipped her champagne, and squinted at each one. The portraits were easy to distinguish as were the landscapes, but she couldn’t for the life of her define the subject matter of the third category, and their titles didn’t help. Dream #1 was anything but dreamy. More like a nightmare.
“Well, what do you think?” a deep, slightly accented voice from behind her asked. “Do you like them?”
She turned to the tall, exotically handsome man who asked her opinion. He wore his dark brown hair long enough to partially cover a small diamond stud, and his smile revealed unnaturally white teeth. But his most riveting feature was his eyes―black and piercing and intensely focused on her. Heat rose on her face as those same eyes flashed with amusement at the obvious impact he had on her. She couldn’t help herself. The man could have been a movie-star idol.
“I haven’t had a chance to study them all,” she said, “but I like a few.”
“And the others?”
She stood back, deliberating, then faced him square on. “Suck.”
Gorgeous burst out laughing. People turned to see what happened. “I love it. A breath of fresh air.”
“Well, I mean, take that one.” She pointed to a large canvas with a black figure embracing a red figure. “Who are they supposed to be? Fred and Ginger?”
“The black figure is Medea.”
“What’s she doing? Is she―” Miranda stopped when she figured out the action in the painting. She shuddered. “Now I know I don’t like it. The artist―what’s his name, I forgot―must be a whackjob.”
“Hmm, could be.”
“Where is he anyway? Point him out.”
A subtle bow accompanied his offered hand. “Stephen Baltraine, at your service,” he said with a playful smile. His gaze remained on her face, exactly where it had been throughout their conversation.
Miranda’s cheeks flamed. “My father always said anyone asking my opinion better be ready for it.” She forced a smile. “I should learn to keep my mouth shut until I know who I’m talking to.”
“I’m just glad you spoke softly.”
“I don’t suppose I could start over and say it’s fabulously frenetic and original, could I?”
He leaned into her. “Not a chance. Anyway, I appreciate honesty. I’m not insulted. My work is an acquired taste.”
His total concentration and the scent of his spicy cologne as he neared caused Miranda to lose her train of thought. She secretly blessed the few admirers who stopped to shake his hand and praise his work, forcing him to release his visual hold, but not her arm. He charmed the patrons with smooth repartee, switching from slick to slicker. Was he phony or real? Miranda couldn’t decide.
When his fans departed, Stephen picked up where he left off. “Now to serious bus