The Blood Lie by Shirley Reva Vernick Read Free Book Online Page A

during one of her U.S. visits.
    By the turn of the century, fancy guesthouses circled the springs. Entire families checked in with their servants for a week or two at a time, bathing in the rank water and glopping on the rotten mud. Soon, laborers moved in to work as cooks, housekeepers and maids. Local boys made extra money on weekends as dippers, lugging large canisters of sulfur water to the bathtubs of guests who were too rich or too lazy to go outside.
    Then the craze passed. The laborers left town, and the guesthouses stood mostly empty. Massena was no longer special, no longer noticed. Colorless, featureless, bland. Just another pit town on the river.
    The Bentley School will be my ticket out of here , Jack told himself, gripping the shofar. First to Syracuse for two years, then maybe to a conservatory in New York City or Boston. After that, anything would be possible.
    â€œ Birds do it, bees do it, even lazy jellyfish do it. Let’s do it…let’s fall in love, ” he sang absently. “ I’m sure sometimes on the sly you do it. Maybe even you and I might do it. Let’s do it, let’s fall in love .”
    Jack took up his cello again, but the doorbell rang before he could begin. He thought it might be Abe Goldberg, or maybe Mrs. Kauffman delivering her famous cheese blintzes, or even his own father, who sometimes forgot his house key. But when he heard his mother saying, “Yes?” in the same wary tone she used with traveling salesmen, he knew it must be a stranger. But at 8:15 in the evening? That’s odd . Setting his cello aside, he went downstairs to see who it was.

    â€œCan I help you?” Mrs. Pool was asking. She was talking to a cop—a tall man with a red mustache, a dark uniform shining with brass buttons, and a sheath of stubble starting to shadow his cheeks.
    Jack’s chest clamped. What was a cop doing at his house? Where was his father?
    â€œEvening,” the officer said. “Trooper Victor Brown here. I’m calling for some help with the missing girl.”
    â€œMissing girl?” Jack and his mother asked in unison, stepping out of the doorway to let him in.
    â€œIt’s been on the radio—and the street—all day.”
    â€œI don’t play the radio on the Sabbath,” Mrs. Pool said.
    â€œIt ain’t Sunday yet, ma’am,” Victor said.
    â€œYes, but our—” She pressed her lips shut. “What girl?”
    â€œDaisy Durham. Mrs. Jenna Durham’s daughter.”
    â€œDaisy?” Jack said.
    â€œWhat? How long has she been gone?” Mrs. Pool asked.
    â€œSince around one,” the trooper said. “A long time. Half the town is out looking for her. Her mother’s been trying to get you all afternoon.”
    â€œI don’t answer the phone on the Sabbath, either,” she said. “Daisy did spend the morning with us. My son walked her home—she went straight home. Oh, this is terrible. How can I help?”
    â€œActually, ma’am, the reason I’m here is, I’d like to talk to your son. Is this him here?”
    â€œYes,” Jack said.
    â€œYour name is Jack?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI’d like to ask you a few things, if you don’t mind.”

    â€œWhy?” Mrs. Pool asked.
    â€œJust fact-checking, ma’am, that’s all. Sort of retracing Daisy’s steps.”
    â€œI guess that would be all right. Come in.” She led him to the kitchen table and then stood by the stove, pretending to watch over the already-cooked soup. The trooper glanced around the kitchen, sniffed a few times quickly, grimaced, and swallowed—all so quick, you wouldn’t have noticed unless you were watching. Which Jack was.
    He took a seat. The trooper straddled the chair opposite him. “So then, you weren’t aware that Daisy’s gone missing?” he asked.
    â€œNo. I walked her home right at noon and haven’t heard anything