Canary by Duane Swierczynski Read Free Book Online Page B

tell me anything.”
    The moments between that last word and the next are excruciatingly long, giving Kevin’s brain plenty of time to invent new awful scenarios.
    “Somebody was passing around a bong.”
    “And …?”
    Sarie turns for a second to lock eyes with her father. “And what?”
    “And how was it?”
    Sarie turns her attention back to the highway for a second to make sure the Civic isn’t about to slam into anything, then locks eyes again.
    “I didn’t try it, I
swear,
I sort of just … faked it and passed it down the line. Why would you think I’d try it?”
    “It’s okay, just asking. Watch the road.”
    “I swear, I didn’t know they’d have pot at the party.”
    “Seriously, it’s okay. And I appreciate you telling me.”
    “Why
wouldn’t
I tell you?”
    The implication being,
I tell you everything, Daddy.
And that makes Kevin more relieved than anyone could possibly know. Despite all they’ve lost this year, he hasn’t lost her.
     
    I’m almost to the Bridge Street exit when my heart starts buzzing. Takes me a second to realize it’s the super-secret snitch hotline—the phone Wildey gave me. Already? I know I have five minutes to respond, and it’s like a digital clock comes to life inside my brain. I’m not proud of this, Mom, but I play the only card we ladies have sometimes.
—Uh, Dad …?
—Yeah?
—Sorry to do this, but I have to stop to use the bathroom.
—We’ll be home in fifteen minutes. Can it wait?
—It really can’t. You know. Girl stuff.
—Oh. Okay. I really don’t know where we can—
But I’ve already spotted it: off the highway, in the distance, the reassuring red glow of a Wawa sign. Dad told me you made fun of them when you first moved here from California—“Wha-what?” The rest of the country has 7-Elevens; we have Wawas. Hoagies, sodas, Tastykakes, all your Philly essentials. But most importantly: bathrooms. Doesn’t matter if this one is clean or not, because I’m not really going to be using it.
The burner buzzes again. Problem is, I’m all the way over in the left-hand lane, and the exit’s coming up, and I’m going to have to pull some breakneck maneuvering right now.
—Easy, Sarie …
I check the rearview. Clear, but there’s a truck racing up the lane trying to close the gap. I slide into the right lane, then into the next right lane. Someone honks at me. Fuck you, you were nowhere near me.
—Sarie!
Then the far right lane, and then the exit ramp, which shares lanes with the on-ramp, with cars rushing up from the right, forcing cars to do this polite crisscross dance. I have no time to be polite. I signal and turn the wheel and there’s a huge chorus of horns to my back and right, so loud it’s as if they’re in the backseat …
—Sarie, for fuck’s sake!
But I hammer the accelerator and I’m all the way over now, and cars whiz past the Civic, and I see an old lady—seriously, she looks fucking ninety—giving me a bony, crooked finger as she passes. I gently press down on the brakes as I approach the light at Aramingo Avenue. Dad’s giving me this what-the-hell look. The phone buzzes again.
     
    With that screeching halt Kevin Holland has been slammed back into vivid sobriety; adrenaline has burned off the remaining booze buzz. His heart is slamming inside his chest, and all he can think of is Marty waking up at his friend’s house to the news that his sister and father both died in an accident on I-95. This is why he loses control. Or so he explains to himself in the moments after he yells at Sarie so loudly and borderline incoherently that she runs from the car and into the Wawa almost shaking. Forget The Fiction. He’s been slammed back into Fact. And the fact is, he can’t control himself. He can’t control anything anymore. He’s an asshole and a horrible father and he’s the only thing his kids have left. God took the wrong one.
     
Transcription of text messages between Officer Benjamin F. Wildey and CI