NEWS: “A Trace of Smoke” is on page 25 of the March/April Writer’s Digest, on newsstands now. Wow!
EXCERPT:
“You seem intent on hurling yourself down the stairs.” He caught me easily and pushed his beautiful lips into a slow smile. “Surely things cannot be so bad, young lady.”
No one had called me a young lady since before the war. “Easy to say from inside such an expensive suit.” I smiled back.
He retrieved my tattered sketchbook, open to the picture I’d drawn of him glaring at the rapist. “A masterful likeness,” he said. “Yet I am at a loss as to why you would sketch me.”
“I do courtroom sketches,” I said to allay his suspicions. “For the newspaper.”
“Do I look so…” He paused, staring at the sketch. “So hateful?”
“I draw what I see,” I said. “But it’s understandable…”
He raised his eyebrows, and my voice trailed off.
“Why would it be understandable?” His voice was cool and controlled.
“Most people hate a man who commits those crimes.”
“Not all?” He closed the sketchbook. “There are those who would not hate someone who takes a child and defiles her, hurts her, damages her on a whim?”
His daughter climbed down the steps to us. “Is everything in order, Vati?”
He smiled and gently touched her arm. “Of course.”
He turned to me. “Fraulein…” He paused expectantly.
“Vogel. Hannah Vogel.” I was grateful that I wrote under a pseudonym, and he did not know I was also a reporter. He might be a good source, and if not, he was a very attractive man. Most men did not desire a woman who did my job: interviewing criminals, fostering connections in the criminal world, investigating crimes, and using all that to write up stories as a man. No need for him to know that I was a reporter just yet.
“Fraulein Vogel was just standing here when I almost knocked her off her feet. She’s quite a talented artist.” He handed me the sketchbook. “Come along,” he said to his daughter, and they started down the stairs.
I turned to go, but my journalistic impulses triumphed over my good manners. Perhaps they knew more about the case. The best stories required the most digging. Or perhaps I fooled myself and wanted more contact with a handsome man who did not wear a wedding ring. Whatever the reason, I called to the girl. “I have a lovely drawing of you, Fraulein.”
When she turned I leafed through my sketchbook and pulled out the drawing I’d done of her. She looked young and lost and beautiful, sitting in the courtroom next to her father. She faced the windows behind the judge, and light suffused her face. I’d drawn her large, widely spaced eyes and the luxurious long hair that she would probably cut soon. I guessed her to be fourteen, almost old enough to demand a bob.
“I look so beautiful,” she said, in a surprised tone.
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