16
MARKULA
I suspected that Narimi might have brought the box when I saw the plastic legs, his terrible “art,” but I did not suspect that it was him who killed Dawn’s mother. I did not see him in Vermont, not that I remember, so he may have been cloaked then. And I never suspected he was involved in this prophecy beyond being an errand boy — I still believe someone else is pulling his strings.
But who?
I clear my throat, a rumble of thunder. “When it happened, Narimi was young by today’s standards. But back then, by your mid-twenties, you had a life — a family. As the elder brother, I already owned a great deal of property, much of it passed from our father.”
The room is quiet besides my voice and the incessant ticking of the grandfather clock. The family room in the New Orleans plant
