House Rules by Jodi Picoult Read Free Book Online

as much as someone else‘s, and that there is at least one person on this planet who seems to have all the answers. Auntie Em is forever coming up with the most practical solutions, as if the key to the great riddles of existence involves surgically cutting away the emotional component and looking at just the facts.
    She‘s probably eighty years old and living with a horde of cats, but I kind of think Auntie Em would make a great cop.
    The last letter takes me by surprise.
    I‘m married to a great guy, but I can‘t stop thinking about my ex, and wondering if I made a mistake. Should I tell him?
    My eyes widen, and I can‘t keep myself from checking the byline. The letter writer doesn‘t live in Strafford, like Hannah, but instead hails from Stowe. Get a grip, Rich, I tell myself silently.
    I reach for the beer bottle, and I‘m just about to take that first indescribable sip when my cell phone rings. Matson, I answer.
    Captain? Sorry to bug you on your night off …
    It‘s Joey Urqhart, a rookie patrolman. I‘m sure it‘s my imagination, but the new officers get younger every year; this one‘s probably still wearing a Pull-Up at night. No doubt, he‘s calling to ask me where we keep the extra Kleenex down at the station or something equally inane. The new kids know better than to bother the chief, and I‘m the second in command.
    … it‘s just that we got a report of a dead body and I figured you‘d want to know.
    Immediately, I‘m on alert. I know better than to ask him questions like if there are signs of foul play, or if we‘re talking suicide. I‘ll figure that out myself.
    Where?
    He gives me the address of a state highway, near a stretch of conservation land. It‘s a popular place for cross-country skiers and snowshoers this time of year. I‘m on my way, I say, and I hang up.
    I take one last, longing look at the beer I didn‘t drink and spill it down the drain.
    Then I grab Sasha‘s coat from the front hallway and rummage through the mudroom for her boots. They‘re not there; they‘re not on the floor of her bedroom, either. I sit down on the edge of her bed and gently shake her out of sleep. Hey, baby, I whisper. Daddy‘s got to go to work.
    She blinks up at me. It‘s the middle of the night.
    Technically, it‘s only 9:30 P.M., but time is relative when you‘re seven years old. I know. I‘m going to take you over to Mrs. Whitbury‘s.
    Mrs. Whitbury probably has a first name, but I haven‘t ever used it. She lives across the street and is the widow of a guy who‘d been on the job for thirty-five years, so she understands that emergencies happen. She babysat Sasha back when Hannah and I were together, and nowadays when Sasha is staying with me and I get an unexpected call.
    Mrs. Whitbury smells like feet.
    She does, actually. Come on, Sash. I need you to get moving. She sits up, yawning, as I pull on her coat, tie her fleece hat under her chin. Where are your boots?
    I don‘t know.
    Well, they‘re not downstairs. You‘d better find them, because I can‘t.
    She smirks. Wow, and you‘re a detective?
    Thanks for the vote of confidence. I lift her into my arms. Wear your slippers, I say. I‘ll carry you to the car.
    I buckle her into her car seat even though we‘re only going twenty yards, and that‘s when I see them the boots, lying on the rubber mats in the backseat. She must have kicked them off on the way home from Hanover, and I didn‘t notice, since I‘d carried her into the house.
    If only all mysteries were that easy to solve.
    Mrs. Whitbury opens the door as if she‘s been expecting us. I‘m so sorry to bother you, I begin, but she waves me off.
    Not at all, she says. I was just hoping for a little company anyway. Sasha, I can‘t remember, are you a fan of chocolate ice cream or cookie dough?
    I set Sasha down inside the threshold. Thanks, I mouth to Mrs. Whitbury, and I turn to leave, already mentally mapping out the fastest route to the crime scene.
    Daddy!
    I turn back