The Tree of Knowledge by Daniel Miller (room on the broom read aloud .txt) 📕

Albert leaned back, surprised. “Oh . . . yeah . . . of—of course.”

He awkwardly rotated his body and wrapped his arms around her. As he leaned in close, he could smell the soft citrus scent of her silky black hair.

She sank her head into his shoulder, and their cheeks rubbed together. Her skin was warm and soft, and as Albert’s lips grazed her cheek, he felt at peace. She slowly turned her head, and their mouths touched. The plush heat of Ying’s lips was pure exhilaration. Without thinking, Albert ran his hands through her hair. He felt the delicate strands tumble over the back of his hand and forearm. It was bliss. Dangerous, intimate, heart-palpitating bliss. His mind began to float away, and his senses surged . . . but he simply couldn’t let go.

I can’t do this, he thought. She’s my assistant. I’m her boss. This is wrong. I’m taking advantage of her anxiety.

With a snap, Albert yanked the connection and stumbled off the bed. He adjusted his suit and glasses.

“I should really go.”

Ying looked up in abandoned confusion. “What?”

“I—I just think I should go. You should get your rest.”

“No, I want you to stay. Stay with me,” she pleaded.

Albert could see the fear and need in her eyes.

“I can’t. I just can’t.” He reached for the door. “Good night, Ying.”

Chapter 8

“Uh-huh, yeah, um-hmm, yes. Yep. No, I understand,” said Michael Weatherspoon into the receiver of his office telephone.

Slumped in his seat, the detective was doing his utmost to sound interested, but Mrs. Carruthers on Glenview Road had been droning on for the past fifteen minutes about the “suspicious” characters roaming the neighborhood. Over the last ten years, Weatherspoon had grown to accept the monthly ritual of early-morning phone calls from Mrs. Carruthers. In her mind, everyone from the mailman to the pizza delivery boy was a suspicious character and “something must be done!”

“I know, Mrs. Carruthers,” said Weatherspoon, trying to sound interested. He spun around in his vinyl desk chair, attempting to get it to stop at a perfect 180 degrees from its starting point. As he spun, he noticed that his other phone line was blinking. The perfect excuse. “Yes, it is outrageous. Well, I’ll be sure to get my men out there right away. Mrs. Carruthers, I’m sorry, but I have another call coming in.” He switched lines, not even waiting for her to finish. “Detective Weatherspoon speaking.”

“Detective Weatherspoon? I don’t know if you remember me, but this is Albert Puddles.”

Weatherspoon leapt forward in his rolling chair, crashing his knee into his desk and nearly toppling the cup of coffee he had precariously placed on the edge. Wincing in pain, the detective attempted to stifle his alarm. He snapped his fingers at the other officers in the precinct to be quiet.

“Oh, of course, I remember you, Dr. Puddles. What can I do for you?” The detective’s thoughts bubbled. Didn’t the FBI go after him a few days ago? Shouldn’t he be in jail by now? Is he calling me from jail? He plopped himself on top of his desk in an attempt to relax his voice for the call.

“Well, sir . . . I’m calling you because I know who killed the security guard at the bank.”

Oh great. Another wack job calling me from jail to protest his innocence. Weatherspoon had seen it a hundred times.

“Oh really,” said the detective sarcastically. “Because I was under the impression that you were the one who killed the security guard.”

“No,” snapped the voice on the other end. “I know that’s what it looks like, but you have to hear me out. Before the attack on your police station, you came to me with a game tree that had a code on it. That game tree linked back to the real murderer. So she attacked the police station, drugged you so you wouldn’t remember, and then framed me.”

“I’m sorry, did you say ‘she’?”

“Yes! Eva Fix—that’s the murderer.”

“Eva Fix? You mean the daughter of Cristina Culebra? You mean the woman who has been aiding our investigation of the crime? Apparently, you’ve had some time to fantasize in your cell, Dr. Puddles.”

“I’m not in a cell. Why do you think she was so involved in the investigation? She was making sure you didn’t find out the truth.”

The detective rubbed his head and scratched the beginnings of his five-o’clock shadow. He remembered thinking it was odd how involved she was in the investigation. His eyes surveyed the crown molding of the station, searching for a memory of that day. Maybe he is telling the truth.

“Dr. Puddles, we have you on video with a needle in your hand.”

“That’s because she handed it to me after she took you out. Didn’t you think it was odd that I happened to be in the most conspicuous pose possible right as the cameras came on? Do you really think I would be that stupid? She was setting me up.”

That was strange. Weatherspoon slowly stroked the maroon sweater that his daughter had given him and considered Puddles’s story. He dropped the phone down to his waist as he thought and then returned it to his cheek. “OK, I’ll bite. Why would Eva Fix want to kill a security guard at a local bank?”

“She didn’t intend to kill the security guard. That was an accident. She was really after a book. A . . . um . . . rare book.”

The detective squeezed the receiver in his hand so tightly that the plastic casing moaned. He was rapidly tiring of this cat-and-mouse game. “Where are you now? I’m coming to meet you.”

“I can’t tell you where I am. But I can tell you where to meet me. I’m going to be at Fix Industries headquarters in Los Angeles tomorrow morning. We believe that there will be evidence implicating Ms. Fix in the burglary as well as broader crimes potentially involving Cristina Culebra.”

“Puddles, I can’t do that. It’s out of my jurisdiction. This would be a matter for the FBI.”

“The FBI? They’re the