11
Drunken DirgeIN A QUANDARY, my mind seesaws back and forth, trying to discern whether Patrice's cryptic note is a cry for help or merely fiction. Has she discovered information on Belle's mysterious disappearance? If so, why hasn't she gone to the police or this detective Pennington? Why me? The only conclusion I can draw is that she was at the off-campus party and saw me there.
Chewing on my bottom lip, I wrestle with this puzzle. Finally, I tear myself away from the manuscript and head to the wine cooler, all the while, pondering Patrice's true intentions. Filling the glass to the rim, I inhale a much-needed gulp, stare about the room and afternoon shadows heralding dusk. Soon the wine does its magic, suffusing my blood with dizzying warmth. The frenzy of thoughts subsides to a hush
