The face of the world famous mathematician on the jacket cover loomed over the picture of Abe Lincoln framed in burgundy matting that rested on the floor by the bookcase. Cyrus had stacked his used brown paper bags that he planned to shred next to his reading chair. His compost pile was far too wet. He rubbed his forehead and tried to think of the next line of his story, but his brain was on hold. Maybe he should don his earphones and pull over the drum pad to play along with a few of his favorite upbeat tunes. That often jarred things loose.
But he couldn’t summon the ambition to figure out what was going to happen to his character. Delores Grimwald was contemplating sticking pins into the recumbent figure of her cruel, though dying, father as he lay unconscious in the hospital. She’d been a good girl for so many years, and he’d taken all she had to give. Was she going to indulge in some payback or continue to be the caring daughter? Was forty-five too late to turn over a new leaf?
Heck, Cyrus wished he was still forty-five. He’d show her how to live. Maybe he’d write her out of her father’s will. Why not ratchet up the tension a bit? Problem was, Cyrus didn’t like Delores much. She had willingly taken the victim role. Could she change now?
He bent over the keyboard….