Home Invasion by Monique Polak Read Free Book Online

Look,” he added, “I decided not to tell your mom about what happened. She’s got enough on her mind already. But there’s one condition.”
    â€œWhat’s that?” I asked him.
    â€œI figure a guy like you knows a thing or two about invading homes. I want you to help me catch the real home invader. God knows the police aren’t having much luck. And if we can figure out who it is, the cops might just leave you alone.”

Chapter Ten
    When Clay suggested we go to the bagel shop for breakfast on Saturday morning, I figured I didn’t have much choice. It’s not that I don’t like the bagel shop. They do their scrambled eggs just right — not too drippy — and they make their bagels in a wood-burning oven at the back of the store. What I wasn’t in the mood for was Clay.
    There is one thing I do have against the bagel shop, though. We were having breakfastthere when Mom and Clay announced they were getting married. It’s a wonder I can still eat scrambled eggs.
    Clay was sitting across from me now, tapping his foot on the floor. I wanted to tell him to cut it out, but then I figured I owed him one for not ratting me out to Mom.
    Just after we gave the waitress our order, Clay pulled this little sketchpad and a pencil from his jacket pocket. “Okay,” he said, opening the sketchpad to a blank page. “Tell me everything you know about breaking into houses — everything you’ve observed.”
    â€œI only did it that one time.”
    Clay looked up from the sketchpad. “Level with me,” he said. “Tell me what you know. One thing I’ve learned from reading mysteries is that solving one is a lot like painting. It’s all about the details.”
    I was thinking about that when the waitress reappeared with our food. Clay moved his sketchpad to the edge of the table.
    I took a bite of my bagel. “Well,” I told him, “basically, you need to watch for ways to get inside. You know, open doors, windowscreens, garages …” That made me think of Patsy. I wondered what was up with her — and how her family was doing.
    Clay nodded. “It is just like painting,” he said, waving his fork in the air like he was a conductor and the fork was a baton. I hoped he wouldn’t jab someone with it. “A painter needs to see what other people miss. The dew on the grass first thing in the morning. The way some old people shuffle when they walk. A spider’s web in the corner of a ―”
    I couldn’t take it anymore. “Look,” I said, cutting Clay off, “how exactly are you planning to find the home invader?”
    Clay put his fork back down on his plate. “First,” he said, “I need to understand how the home invader thinks. Once I know that, I imagine the rest will fall into place.”
    He made it sound so easy that, for a second, I believed him. But a second after that I went back to thinking he was a nut. Still, I had to tell him something — even if it was just to get him to stop jabbering about all the stuff artists have to notice. “You know,” I told him, “a home invader might leave clues.”
    Clay reached for his sketchpad. “Like what?” he asked.
    â€œAfter a rainfall, footprints in the mud. Ladders where they shouldn’t be. Scaffolding on the side of a building. Flowers that look like they’ve been trampled on.”
    Clay nodded. I watched as he used his pencil to draw a tiny footprint at the top of the page. He made scratching sounds as he worked. He added some dark lines and, presto — it looked like mud.
    I was about to tell him I didn’t know he could draw real stuff — and not just blobs — when Patsy walked into the bagel shop. She was heading for the counter at the back where they sell fresh bagels.
    Clay must’ve seen her too. “Hey, isn’t that Patricia from down the