They All Fall Down by Roxanne St. Claire Read Free Book Online Page A

“I fell asleep.”
    After I heard you come home .
    “Are you sick? Do you have a fever?”
    I never, never cop to anything that makes her worry, but … didn’t I hear someone downstairs?
    I know I locked the door. I remember putting my bag down, turning the latch, dropping the mail … or did I? My brain is like a blanket of sleepy fog.
    “Kenzie? Are you all right?” Her voice rises in a familiar note of grade one panic. Not anywhere near her potential of DEFCON 5 (saved for left turns, no matter how far away the oncoming car is), but she is now alarmed.
    Of course, that just means she is now breathing.
    “I’m fine, Mom, just sleepy.” But I’m staring at my open door, half expecting an ax murderer to jump into the room. I know I heard something.
    I squeeze my eyes shut, as adept at stopping my own fears as I am at sidestepping hers. I must have totally imagined that noise.
    “Did you sleep last night? You didn’t tell me you had a bad night. Anything going on at school?”
    Oh, here we go. “It’s a nap, Mom, not a coma.”
    I hear her sigh at my sarcasm. “I’ll be home in less than half an hour.”
    “ ’Kay.” Then I remember the football game. “Oh, Mom, did you have any plans for tonight?”
    “Just burgers and fries, honey. I thought we could watch a movie.”
    My eyes shutter heavily. She’s lonely, I know, and when Dad doesn’t come over, I’m all she’s got. Whose fault is that? Mine. “Oh, okay.”
    “Why?”
    “I just thought …” That smell dances up my nose again, putrid and stronger. “I was thinking about going to the football game at school.”
    “Oh, Kenzie.” I hear her already digging for reasons why no safe or sane person should go to a high school football game. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”
    “Yes, Mom.” I try to dial back the bitchy, but it gets so hard sometimes. What I want to say is, I think going to a football game on a nice autumn night when you’re sixteen years old and the hottest guy on the team asks you is a grand idea . It’s not respect that stops me; I just don’t have the energy for a fight right now.
    “We’ll talk when I get home, Kenzie. Be careful.”
    I don’t respond because I feel like crap and my head hurts even worse now. Anyway, “be careful” is just her everydaysign-off. I learned long ago that it was her substitute for “I love you” and stopped waiting to hear the real thing.
    I hang up, still staring into the hall. The other door is visible, but closed, of course. Conner’s room remains exactly as it was the day he went to work after school and let me tag along because I didn’t want to be home alone.
    I stay still and listen, but a bone-deep exhaustion still presses, despite the adrenaline rush. I know that if I don’t move, I’ll be asleep again in a minute. Fighting the same physical pain that I feel when my alarm goes off at 6:30, I slowly roll off the bed.
    I have to go downstairs and make sure I locked the door.
    Shaking my head clear, I walk across the room, drawing back with a face when I get another whiff of that rancid smell. What the heck?
    My pulse is loud enough in my head that I don’t hear my own footsteps, let alone any downstairs. I hold the handrail and peer down.
    “Anyone there?” I say, feeling incredibly stupid. And just a little … sick.
    A wave of nausea swells in my stomach and I grip tighter, taking each steep step slowly.
    The house is dead silent, but the smell is stronger. I hesitate on the last step, continuing to steady myself with the handrail. This is crazy. I’ve spooked myself for no reason.
    I leap around the stairway wall, landing in the empty, quiet dining room.
    Now I really feel stupid. And, whoa, dizzy. I walk to the kitchen because I was absolutely sure I’d heard Mom in there. But the room’s as quiet and still and empty as when I came in. I go straight to the door and check the latch, which is firmly horizontal and locked.
    Okay, totally an overactive