A Fugitive Truth by Dana Cameron

stunned by what I thought I saw. And when I realized that I wasn’t mistaken, I skidded down the leaves on the muddy slope from the road to the edge of the brook.
    I found Faith Morgan lying facedown. Her head and torso rested in the stream, her hair spread out and tangled around her on the water. Dead leaves surrounded her body, but they more resembled a nest than rubbish to be cleared away. I rolled her over carefully, hoping that she had only just fallen, but that was more of a fervent wish than a real possibility.
    For a split second, I thought I could wake her up; she would catch cold without her coat. She needed to run to keep warm, like me. But even before I pushed back some of the hair from her still face, I knew she was dead and I mustn’t disturb her further. I tried to slow my heavy breathing, the only intrusive thing in this place. Although I remotely understood that I must leave her in the water, I couldn’t resist moving some more of the wet hair from her eyes.
    Something besides life had left her, and I sat a moment, trying to figure out what the change was. Her lips were bluish, but it did not detract from the look of peace—that was it. The bitter, haunted look had left her, possibly for the first time in our slender acquaintance.
    The light shifted again, and the golden beams were blocked behind another bank of clouds. The wind was picking up again. I sat with Faith a little longer to keep her company in the lonely afternoon, until I realized that I was getting cold too, and that someone should be told. I told her I would return quickly, brushed the leaf duff from my shorts, and scrambled back up the shallow bank to the road.
    It felt silly to be running again, I felt childish, suddenly, in my sneakers and windbreaker, goose-pimply legs churning fast again, with no thought as to managing my pace. I knew I wouldn’t do Faith any good with speed, but I needed to feel the blood moving through my body again, and she at least deserved the respect of urgency.
    I pounded down the road toward the house, noticing how the clatter of bare branches overhead is a very lonely sound.

Chapter 6
    A S I GASPED MY WAY UP THE FRONT STAIRS , I FUMLED for my key in the pocket of my windbreaker. I was hyperventilating now, and between that and the sweat pouring into my eyes, I could barely fit the key into the lock. It clicked open; I stumbled into the foyer and heard someone coming down the main staircase, the clink of ice on glass audible. I skidded across the tile to the phone, but regardless of my haste, Jack started in as soon as he realized he had an audience.
    “Well look what the cat dragged in!” he announced from the stairs. “And dragged over hill and dale by the looks of you!”
    “Jack, just—don’t! Faith’s dead!” I dialed 911 and told them we needed an ambulance and police at Shrewsbury, and said I would meet them at the spot. Then I rang the security desk at the annex. Jack never stopped blathering the whole time, the old fool. He should have known he’d get more from listening to my calls than he would by pestering me.
    “Dead? Faith?” he was stammering. “How can she be dead? Are you sure?” Jack took another big draught of his drink, then set it down, then picked it up again, leaving a big wet ring on the hall table.
    I hated him for his frail, human incredulity, and for making me think more about this than necessary. “That’s why I get these scholarships, Jack,” I snapped as I hung up. “I notice when someone’s lying on the side of the road.”
    “On the side of the road? Was she hit by a car? Perhaps she’s only unconscious,” Jack offered eagerly.
    “I don’t think so. I think she’s been dead for hours, maybe since last night, maybe this morning. It looked like the leaves had blown around her for a while,” I said, pausing to retie one of my sneakers. “I’m heading back there. If anyone calls back, tell them about a half mile from the house, on the road by the stream.