The Key to Everything by Alex Kimmell Read Free Book Online Page B

Daddy.”
    “You’re welcome Jer. Do you want me to tuck you in again?” He shuffles out.
    “No Daddy. I’m big now. I can go night by myself.” He leans against the wall until he gets to his door. “Goodnight night Daddy.”
    “Goodnight night buddy. Sweet dreams.”
    Your eyes are red, and you are covered in the remnants of crying. After a little warm water and soap, you almost feel clean. Putting the towel back on the rack, your hand reaches down for the book. Not quite sure what to do with it, you head down to the kitchen and sit down at the table with a bottle of beer. A cigarette would be so good right now, but you and Emily both quit after Gram Aida died. 
    You realize what this thing feels like. Running your finger over the cover, it’s like old cancer skin. You want to pull your hand back, but you leave it there for a moment, stretching your fingers out and pressing your palm down completely. You hold your breath and lean your ear down a little bit closer. You could swear it almost feels like it’s breathing. 
    No. You sit back and push the book a few inches away from you, across the table. The old rotting string wrapped around the cover is dark red. So dark it’s almost black. The knot looks like an impenetrable tangled mass. Something a drunken sailor would tie when he wanted to keep a secret safe. Or a child would tie to keep the boogeyman out. Or lock him in. 
    You lift your bottle to take a sip of beer, but the cap is still on. Pushing your chair back, you grab the magnetic bottle and can opener Emily sticks on the refrigerator door. Popping open the beer, you toss the cap  toward the trashcan. You miss by a few inches but shrug your shoulders, telling yourself you’ll pick it up in a few minutes. 
    The cold beer washes down your throat, and you feel like you’ve been parched for a month. Your entire body relaxes and your muscles unclench as the refreshing alcohol enters your system. After a few swallows, you put the bottle down on the table and open your eyes. You look out the window and see the black shapes of what must be trees gently swaying in the night air. It’s dark, but the streetlights around the neighborhood glow enough to give you a black-and-white view of most of the yard. You can see outlines of trees and bushes. Black painted cardboard standees floating in the blackness. 
    Then you stop. You hear it, the shuffling and scratching sound. The same sound the squirrel was making behind the tree. You don’t see anything moving, but you know you can hear it. At the kitchen door, you grab the latch and flick it up to unlock it. The scratching is louder and closer now. There must be another one of those squirrels out there. You open the door and switch on the outside light.
    As soon as your foot touches the concrete of the patio, the scratching stops. Now there is nothing but the sounds of traffic flowing by and your neighbor’s stereo playing an old Peter Gabriel record. “At least they have good taste in music,” you think. Shaking your head, you go back inside and close the door. You’re just freaking out from the last few days. You pick up the bottle and go to the living room. There’s nothing good on the box, even with all these channels, so you leave it on the Late Late Show and watch some plastic-surgery-ridden 59-year-old actress try to look like she’s still 23 and tell jokes that are desperately unfunny. 
    Beer finished, you start thinking about having one more before going up to check on Emily and Jason. You close the fridge and open the beer. This time, you make the shot in the trash. “Yes!” You pump your arm like Michael Jordan. You pick up the bottle cap from earlier and drop it in the bin. When you walk past the table, you have to stop. Everything freezes and you almost drop your beer. Catching yourself on the back of the chair, you see it. The string is untied, lying in swirls on the table, casually splayed next to the book. 
    It is an invitation. The book