The Mysteries by Lisa Tuttle Read Free Book Online

say something he didn't want her to hear.
    “Joe, I am
cooking
your
dinner.
I can't do that unless you look after Mikey and Sammy and keep them out of the kitchen.”
    “I'm sorry, hon, but something's come up. I'm afraid I'm going to have to go out.” He spoke in leaden, unnatural tones, as if I was holding a gun to his head, but she didn't seem to notice.
    “Go
out
? But what about your dinner?”
    “I can eat later.”
    “Can't this wait?” She looked at me, and frowned. “He's just a kid.”
    “It can't wait,” I said flatly.
    “Just hang on a minute; I'll get my keys; we can talk in the car,” said Joe. He turned away from me, herding the woman and child ahead of him, and dropped his voice to a pleading tone: “I'm sorry about this, hon, but it won't take long.”
    I heard them talking as they went away—her high, irritable whine, his lower, broken rumble—but paid no attention. They'd left the front door open. I felt constrained from actually going in without an invitation. Without stepping across the threshold, I leaned my upper body into the house and gazed around, drinking it all in. I caught a faint whiff of frying onions, and the sound of the Coca-Cola song, but both of those came from other rooms beyond my ken.
    This front room, clearly, was a formal space reserved for special occasions, not the ongoing daily life of the house. There was a big, new-looking pink couch and two matching armchairs. Between them, a shiny coffee table displayed a stiff arrangement of artificial flowers. Shelving units lined the far wall. No television, but I saw a stereo system and a line of LPs on a low shelf, along with two oversized books. On second glance they weren't books, but photo albums. There wasn't a single book in sight. All those shelves, which in my mother's house would have been stuffed to overflowing with books, here held only a frozen display of china knickknacks, silver-framed photographs, more artificial flowers, and a set of gold-rimmed wine glasses.
    “OK, let's go.” My dad came through, shrugging on a grey windbreaker, still avoiding my eyes.
    Neither of us said a word as we got into his car. He backed swiftly out of the driveway, drove down the street and around the corner, then pulled to the curb and stopped. He put the car in park but left the engine running. Staring straight ahead he said, “How'd you find me? Did your mother send you?”
    “She doesn't know anything about it. I found you myself. I've been looking for you ever since you disappeared. I didn't know what had happened. I thought—” I broke off, unable to tell him what I had thought, unwilling to confess how much of my life had been given over to childish fantasies. I folded my arms and stared ahead, frowning hard.
    “How did you find me?”
    “You're in the book.”
    He exhaled noisily and shook his head at his own stupidity. “Oh, yeah. I never thought. For two years, three, I was so careful, but after so long . . .” He turned to me, frowning suspiciously. “But what're you doing here? Aren't you still living in Milwaukee?”
    “Mom's still there. And Heather.”
    “Don't tell me you ran away from home!”
    “Like you did?”
    “I didn't run away.”
    “Oh no?”
    “You don't know anything about it.”
    “Of course I don't—how could I? You never told us anything—you didn't even say good-bye. What were we supposed to think? We were
worried
. Scared. We thought you might be in trouble.”
    He stared at me. In the dim light I couldn't be sure of his expression, but I thought he looked stunned; that our long-ago anguish was an unsought revelation.
    After a while he said, quietly, “I'm sorry. I never wanted to hurt you.”
    “Why did you go?”
    “I had to. To save my own life. I was in so deep, I couldn't see any other way out. I had to leave, to start over again. It seemed like the only thing to do.”
    I felt a surge of excitement. “What do you mean—were there people after you? Like gangsters? Did you