The Deadly Neighbors (The Zoe Hayes Mysteries) by Mery Jones Read Free Book Online Page B

matter how harsh. And I’d grown to depend on that unflinching friendship. Susan balanced me; I spent almost as much time at her house as at my own. Unlike mine, hers always smelled like fresh-baked banana bread or simmering marinara sauce or some other fragrant comfort food. The place literally buzzed with the sounds of children and vacuums and food processors and phones; it pulsed with the tensions of her criminal law practice and the never-ending, always competing demands of her various roles and relationships. Susan was a wife, mother, lawyer, housekeeper, decorator, hostess, daughter, cook, community leader, bargain hunter, recipe collector and loyal friend, not necessarily in that order. Her life was a cyclone of activity, a carnival act of juggled priorities. She made potato salad while on the phone with prosecutors, sorted laundry while rehearsing closing statements. And, although every project she undertook seemed chaotic, disorganized and subject to unpredictable interruptions, Susan managed miracles. Her children and marriage were robust, her clients usually satisfied. And her friends were always welcome, especially in moments of crisis. But now, she was closing me out. She was hurt, thinking that I’d violated the tacit terms of our relationship by keeping a hugely significant secret from her.
    But, damn it, my silence about my father hadn’t been secrecy; I hadn’t intended to hide him. I hadn’t lied about him. I’d simply walled him out of my mind for a decade or two. And that had worked fine, until he had suddenly rematerialized, knife in hand, chopping my life to pieces. Couldn’t Susan understand? And if not, couldn’t she get past some petty slight? I took a deep breath, felt a warm October breeze stroke my face.
    Around us, parents on bleachers and folding chairs stood and began to cheer, waving their arms. “Go, Tigers—Run! Go!”
    A man a few feet away bellowed, “T-I-G-E-R-S! Go, Tigers!”
    The Tigers were the other team. We were the Rams. I looked out onto the field, where a tall, lean Tiger was taking off with the ball, closing in on our goal. I held my breath, suddenly realizing that my little Molly was in the heat of the action, fearlessly storming the much larger girl who controlled the ball, heading in to intercept just yards from the goalie. Even in her soccer gear, with knee pads and protective clothing, Molly looked tiny and fragile, but she stormed the large girl without hesitation. Suddenly, the Tiger was swinging her leg at empty air while little Molly darted away, the ball spinning safely away from the goal, successfully passed to a Ram teammate. Gaping, the crowd of Tiger parents stopped screaming, sat down again, silent.
    “Yes! Go, Rams.” Beaming, unembarrassed, I got up and clapped and yelled with Susan despite the glares of the home-team Tiger parents. I was relieved that Molly was having fun, that she was seemingly unscathed by the shocks of the day before.
    “Unbelievable.” Susan stopped cheering, sat down again and reached for her knitting. “I didn’t even see Molly coming. Man, she’s quick.”
    Yes, but not quick enough. The ball came back to her and, as she began to move it down the field, mammoth Tiger girls closed in from all sides, cutting her off. Molly tried to swerve, but swiftly, deftly, a large Tiger stuck her leg out and blatantly tripped her. Molly went flying, sprawling to the ground, about to be trampled by the other team. Tiger parents pounced to attention, roaring encouragement. The referee watched, did nothing.
    I was on my feet, ready to jump onto the field and rescue my daughter, but Susan restrained me, shaking her head, ordering me to sit down. And before I could get free of her grip, Molly had bounced up again, back in the game, apparently unhurt. There was no danger, no harm. The girls were merely playing a sport, kicking and running and passing and panting. I was overreacting, still on high alert. My head ached where a purplish lump had