Deadly Little Voices by Laurie Faria Stolarz Read Free Book Online Page B

taking all her medication, going to therapy twice a week, and receiving high marks for cooperation from Nurse Loretta.

    “Yes, but she barely comes out of her room,” I remind him.

    “At night, she does. She’s been sleeping a lot during the day. She’s got her days and nights reversed, I guess.”

    I manage a nod, wondering if her erratic sleep schedule is the reason I’ve had the sensation of being watched: if maybe she’s been skulking around the house while I sleep, and peeking into my room.

    We eat in silence for several minutes. I can tell Dad’s got a lot on his mind. He keeps gazing up from his trough of guacamole, taking big breaths as if about to say something.

    “Is everything okay?” he asks, finally venturing to speak. He looks toward my plate.

    “Better than okay,” I say, assuming he’s talking about the food.

    “And what about between you and Aunt Alexia?” he asks. “Is everything okay in that department, too?”

    I pause from polishing off the container of nacho dip. “What do you mean?”

    “I mean, have you two gotten a chance to chat at all?”

    “Not really,” I say, choosing not to tell him about last night, because I’m not so sure that being coaxed out of a closet and tucked into bed with my long-lost baby doll constitutes an actual chat. “She seems so much different now than she was at the mental facility—more afraid, less willing to talk. It’s like she’s taken a step back.”

    “Well, I think you should at least try to talk to her,” he says. “Whenever you’re ready, that is. I think it might make her more comfortable. Nurse Loretta told us that Alexia’s feeling a bit self-conscious about staying here. Your mom and I want her to feel welcome.”

    I swallow hard; a chip scrapes my throat. “I’d like to talk to her. I think we might have a lot in common.”

    Dad meets my eyes, waiting for me to elaborate, maybe. But I’m waiting for him to elaborate, too. It feels like there’s so much more being said than what’s actually coming out of our mouths.

    “I think so, too,” he says after a two-bite pause. “And not just with your art.”

    “I agree,” I say, staring straight at him, silently challenging him to come clean about what he knows.

    Despite the tension between him and Mom these past several months, it was actually Dad’s idea for Aunt Alexia to come and stay with us for a while— Dad , who approximately two months ago spotted Aunt Alexia’s journal in my bedroom when he popped in to say hello. He moved it to my night table, making room for himself on my bed, not even asking what it was.

    Is it possible that he didn’t notice? Did he not see her name scrawled across the front cover?

    Dad falls silent, looking back down at his food again, failing to ask me any more.

    “What are you thinking?” I ask, trying to force him back to the topic.

    He smiles, then nudges the container of sour cream toward me. “I’m thinking that we haven’t even talked about school yet.”

    I bite my lip to keep it from trembling, disappointed that he doesn’t want to discuss Aunt Alexia more. “I take it you haven’t picked up your voice mail messages at work?”

    “Why?” he asks. “Did something happen?”

    I take a deep breath, trying to stay in control, but I suddenly feel like I’ve absolutely none. My eyes fill with tears.

    “Camelia?” He leans across the table to touch my forearm. “Hey,” he says, finally getting up and coming to sit beside me.

    I snuggle up into his chest the way I did when I was five, wishing that I could go back in time and be a little girl all over again.

    Dad strokes my hair. He smells like coffee and chili peppers. “What is it?” he asks.

    I break our embrace to look at him again—at his swollen eyes and the furrow lines on his forehead. He looks almost as scared as I feel.

    “I had a panic attack in sculpture class,” I lie, wiping the tears from my eyes, “and Ms.
    Beady recommended that