Deadly Little Games by Laurie Faria Stolarz Read Free Book Online Page A

of sitting amid all that funeral-home decor, coupled with the threat of hearing someone screech about her missing pillow, is far more unsettling than the idea of spending the morning by myself in an unfamiliar city. And so I take Ms. Connolly’s advice and head to the strip mall down the road.
    A couple of hours later, Mom and I meet up for lunch at a nearby coffee shop.
    “So, how was it?” I ask her.
    “Good.” She actually smiles—the first smile I’ve seen on her in days. “Her doctor asked me some stuff about our childhood, so I got to tell my side of things.”
    “Did Aunt Alexia tell hers?”
    Mom shakes her head. “She mostly just listened. But that’s okay, too. Because at least she knows how sorry I am.”
    “Even though it wasn’t your fault.”
    My mom nods, but I’m not sure she believes it. Growing up, Aunt Alexia was hated by their mother—my grandmother. According to Aunt Alexia’s diary, and confirmed by a few details from Mom, my grandmother blamed Aunt Alexia’s birth as the reason her husband left them. Meanwhile, my mom was loved and indulged, often as a way to make Aunt Alexia jealous.
    “She really wants to see you,” Mom says.
    I take a bite of scone, thinking back to the last time I saw Aunt Alexia—probably when I was around seven or eight. She came to visit for the holidays, but then left on the afternoon of Christmas Eve.
    I remember how nervous she was—always looking over her shoulder, forever checking out the window and fussing with her hair. And I remember all the art supplies she brought along. I wanted her to teach me what she knew, wanted to be able to do brushstrokes just like hers, but Aunt Alexia wouldn’t let me join in, insisting that art was for bad girls, and that I was better off playing with my dolls.
    She left soon after, even though Mom begged her to stay. She just kept saying that she needed to get home for an interview she’d forgotten about. Finally, Mom caved and drove her to the train station.
    We got a call from the local hospital a few hours later. Aunt Alexia never got on her train. Instead she ended up at the motel in the next town over, where she tried to kill herself, using some telephone cord to hang herself in the shower. Another guest at the motel had heard some weird noises coming from her room and asked the manager to check things out. That’s when they found Aunt Alexia, thankfully in time to save her.
    “Just think about it,” Mom says to me. “No pressure.”
    “I want to see her. That’s why I’m here.”
    Mom reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. “When I brought up your name, she said she remembered how much you liked to watch her paint. I told her that you were an artist as well, and she asked if you’d like to see some of her work.”
    “She wasn’t upset?”
    “Why would she be?”
    I shrug, still wondering what Aunt Alexia meant years ago when she told me that art was for bad girls. Was it a lame attempt to try to get me interested in other things? Was she afraid that I might end up like her?
    “When can I see her?” I ask.
    “How about after lunch? We leave tomorrow, so we need to take advantage of every moment.”
    “Sounds good,” I say, eager to find out some answers.

B ACK INSIDE THE FACILITY , Mom explains that this is an alternative place, that they give the patients a lot of liberties that bigger facilities don’t.
    “For example?” I ask, closing the door behind us.
    Before she can answer, Ms. Connolly appears. She ushers us through the lobby and into an art studio, as if things have all been arranged. “This is the art therapy room,” Ms. Connolly says, opening the door wide.
    The ceilings are high. The smell of turpentine is thick in the air. And the room is set up with easels, drop cloths, and the requisite bowl of wax fruit as a centerpiece to paint (only, unlike the wax-fruit arrangement at school, this one has a bite out of one of the apples).
    I continue to look around, finally noticing