CHAPTER FIVE
“Why are you doing this to us?” she
heard her friend, Leslie, cry out.
Marianne Bowles sat up in bed for a
moment. She was thirty-two and single, with blond hair, blue eyes,
and a lovely figure—though Marianne felt she stood to lose about
ten pounds. She was in from Boston on business with Microsoft, and
decided to spend the weekend with her old college roommate, Leslie
and her husband, Kurt.
At the moment, it sounded like the two
of them might be having a fight. In a weird way, it was kind of a
relief to know Leslie and Kurt Fontaine weren’t so damn perfect
after all. Marianne envied her old college pal. Leslie was still a
knockout. She and Kurt seemed terribly happy. They lived in a
gorgeous little English cottage–style house at the end of a
cul-de-sac in the Madrona neighborhood. It had a sweet English
garden with a stone pathway to the garage, which Kurt had converted
into an office for Leslie and her thriving website-design business.
It made ideal guest quarters—with its full bath, mini-fridge,
microwave, and comfortable sofa bed, on which Marianne now slept.
At least she’d been sleeping—until the voices from the house woke
her up.
They’d dined out at Cactus in Madison
Park and had a few too many margaritas. But it had been a wonderful
time, with lots of laughs and old college stories. Marianne had
staggered down the stone pathway to her guest quarters at around
11:30, and she’d been asleep by midnight.
She squinted at the clock on the end
table: 1:55 A.M. She couldn’t believe
Leslie and Kurt were still awake—and arguing, no less. Maybe they’d
hit that wall some people hit after a certain amount of happy
drinking—and then they become angry-drunk.
“Oh, God, no!” Kurt yelled. “Wait,
wait!”
Marianne slumped back down in the bed
and put her hands over her ears. She didn’t want to hear their
private discussion, which sounded almost violent. She could still
detect some muffled yelling from Kurt. So Marianne rolled over on
her side and pressed the extra pillow to the side of her head. That
seemed to block it out.
She must have drifted off, because then
she heard a tapping noise and glanced at the clock again: 3:17
A.M. It took her a moment to realize
someone was knocking on her door. She’d locked it earlier. There
was just enough light in the room for her to see the knob turning
back and forth a bit.
Pulling back the bedcovers, Marianne
was about to climb out of bed. She hesitated—she wasn’t sure why.
She already had a bit of a hangover, and didn’t want to have to
listen to Leslie’s version of what they’d been arguing about.
Marianne was just too tired.
There were a few more taps on the
door.
She figured if Leslie wanted to talk
that badly, she’d go fetch the key and let herself in. Marianne
fell back into bed. After a few moments, she saw a shadow in the
window—moving back toward the house.
Her eyelids grew heavy and she felt
herself drifting off to sleep again. Marianne’s last thought was
about the light coming through the window. Strange, how bright it
seemed outside. It was as if every light was on inside the charming
English cottage–style home.
“Chris? Erin?” Molly called from the
bottom of the stairs. They were both in their respective bedrooms.
Erin had a ballet recital at 2 P.M. Chris
was getting together with Elvis this afternoon. Molly had emerged
from the shower an hour ago and was still in her bathrobe. She’d
promised to drive Erin to her recital and attend the
show.
That had been two weeks ago—before
she’d found out Angela would be there, too.
Perhaps that was why Molly had been on
edge most of the morning. It was Saturday, and the ballet show was
in an hour.
“Did either of you take the MapQuest
directions from the basket on the kitchen counter?” she called
upstairs to them.
No response.
“Erin? Chris?” she yelled.
“I didn’t take’m!” Chris yelled back,
his voice muffled by the closed door.
“Me neither, and please, I’m trying to
get dressed!” Erin screamed, very much the prima donna
ballerina.
Molly checked her purse for the
directions. The night before last, she’d printed the MapQuest
directions and set the printout by the phone on the kitchen
counter. Now it wasn’t there. All she could remember was the
recital hall was someplace where God lost his shoes in Mountlake
Terrace.
The printout wasn’t in her purse,
either.
She didn’t even want to go to this
stupid thing. Why the hell couldn’t Angela drive Erin? Wouldn’t a
mother want to spend that time with her daughter? What an
incredible jerk. Molly really didn’t want to see her today. Angela
was probably ready to dole out some more Don’t
Trust Jeff advice, too.
It had been a little over a week since
Molly had spoken with Angela at the Neighborhood Watch potluck.
They’d learned about Ray Corson’s murder that same
morning.
The police still hadn’t found his
killer yet. Molly heard they’d interviewed Ian Scholl’s parents.
They’d even spoken with Jeff at his office that day. They didn’t
dare let on that he was a suspect, or even a person of interest.
But he must have been—for a brief while anyway.
From what Molly had read, the police
figured Corson’s death was the result of a random robbery that had
gotten out of hand. The Arboretum was close enough to the
University District, where there had been a rash of armed robberies
lately.
Chris had told his dad he wanted to
attend Mr. Corson’s wake this weekend. He wanted to pay his
respects, and maybe even apologize to Mrs. Corson for that whole
mess back in December. But Jeff insisted it was a private service,
and Chris wouldn’t be welcome there. Besides he didn’t need to
apologize to anybody for anything.
In the end, Chris had ceded to his
father’s ruling and sulked about it for the better part of an
evening.
Jeff had spent the last four nights in
Denver. He was coming back in time for dinner tonight—if his flight
wasn’t delayed.
Molly had endured the last few
nerve-wracking nights without him. The Cul-de-sac Killer had struck
again last weekend, slaying a Madrona couple. An old college friend
visiting from Boston had been asleep in a guesthouse behind the
residence. She hadn’t heard about the Cul-de-sac Killer, so she
hadn’t been alarmed when she noticed nearly every light on inside
her friends’ house when she awoke Sunday morning. She found her
friend’s husband in a coat closet on the first floor. His hands
were tied behind him, and he’d been stabbed repeatedly. The wife
was in the master bedroom closet with her throat slit. The woman
from Boston told police that she’d heard them in the middle of the
night—and thought they were arguing. And later, someone had tapped
on her door, but she hadn’t answered it.
Of course, Molly read every article she
could about the murders—and then she wasn’t able to sleep at
night.
Last night had been the worst. Chris
had gone out for a movie and pizza with Elvis. Molly had let him
take her car. But when Chris still hadn’t come home by midnight,
she grew more and more anxious—not only about her stepson but also
for Erin and herself. After tucking Erin in bed, she’d been
reluctant to go up to her studio and work. If someone broke in, she
might not hear anything until it was too late. She imagined coming
down from her studio to discover Erin’s empty bed—and her body in
the closet.
So Molly sat in the family room with
the TV on. She kept expecting to see someone through the glass
doors, lurking at the edge of the forest in the back. Finally, she
closed Angela’s ugly drapes, blocking the view entirely. She almost
telephoned Henry down the block, but stuck it out until 12:25, when
Chris finally came home.
Just having a semi-adult in the house
made her feel safer—which was also kind of silly, because three of
the killer’s victims were adult males. Still, Molly was able to
relax a bit with Chris there.
He’d asked to use her car again this
afternoon to hang out with Elvis, but she had to drive Erin to her
ballet recital.
Molly still couldn’t find the damn
MapQuest directions. She decided to go into Jeff’s computer, check
the sites she’d last visited, pull up the page, and print it
again—a solution she should have thought often minutes
ago.
On her way to Jeff’s study, she ran
into Chris coming down the stairs. His hair was carefully combed,
and he wore a pair of pressed khakis, a crisp-looking blue shirt,
and black loafers, shined and buffed. He carried a lightweight,
dark jacket.
“Well, you look nice,” Molly commented.
“I thought you were getting together with Elvis. You look more like
you’re going out on a hot date.”
He frowned at her a bit. “No, we’re
just hanging out, that’s all,” he muttered. At the front door,
Chris threw on his jacket. “We—um, we might go to the art museum. I
just didn’t want to look like a bum.”
“Can I drop you at Elvis’s? It’s on the
way, and there’s still time before Erin’s Swan
Lake stint.”
“It’s okay. I’m taking the bus downtown
and meeting him.”
“Well, try to be back in time for
dinner,” Molly said, patting his shoulder. “Your dad’s coming home,
and I’m fixing lasagna. Tell Elvis he’s invited, too.”
Chris just nodded distractedly. “I’ll
call and let you know. Bye.” Then he headed out the front
door.
Molly glanced at her wristwatch. She
still had to get dressed. “Erin, honey!” she called upstairs. “Just
to let you know, we’re leaving in about twenty minutes!” Then she
murmured to herself. “If I can ever track down how to get to this
damn place . . .”
She headed into Jeff’s study, sat down
at his computer, and got online. She clicked on the browsing
history arrow. She was about to scroll down to MapQuest.com Search
Results when she noticed two sites listed near the top: King County
Metro Online Trip Planner and Bonney-Watson Funeral Home,
Seattle.
Molly shook her head. “Oh, that sneaky
son of a . . .”
She stood up and peered out the window.
She could see Chris at the end of the cul-de-sac, near the
NO OUTLET sign. Molly felt a little sad
pang in her stomach as she watched him. His head down as he walked,
Chris pulled a tie from his jacket pocket and started to fix it
around his neck.
The bus was late.
Chris stood at the stop, by the pole
with the route table listed on a small placard. It was a chilly,
overcast afternoon, but he wore his sunglasses anyway. He hiked up
the collar of his jacket, and then felt his tie knot again. He
figured it was crooked, but he could always straighten it out when
he got to the funeral home.
He wondered if he’d read the bus
schedule wrong when he’d checked it online. From his jacket pocket,
he pulled out the piece of scrap paper on which he’d written the
bus numbers and pickup times. On the back of the scrap paper was a
MapQuest printout to someplace in Mountlake Terrace. He turned it
over and glanced at his notes. He had to make three transfers, and
it would be a ninety-minute trip each way.
He wondered if attending this wake was
such a good idea. He didn’t want to upset Mr. Corson’s family, and
chances were good he’d upset them—big-time. But he had to make
amends and apologize to someone.
He remembered trying to get ahold of
Mr. Corson after he left school in December. But his guidance
counselor, who had always been there for him, changed his cell
phone number and e-mail address. Chris used to run the high school
track alone late afternoons, hoping against hope that Mr. C would
surprise him and show up. He knew it was a crazy
notion.
Mr. Corson once mentioned he sometimes
ran on the Burke-Gilman Trail along north Lake Union in Seattle. So
for three nights in mid-February, Chris took two buses to the
University Bridge and then strolled along the trail in search of
Mr. Corson. He didn’t spot him until the fourth trip.
It was unseasonably warm, and the
setting sun marked the sky with streaks of red, orange, and plum.
The colors glistened off the lightly rippling water of Lake Union.
The trail had a steady stream of people running, walking, and
riding their bikes. Chris was momentarily distracted by a pretty
blonde in a clingy black jogging suit, and he almost missed Mr.
Corson—jogging a few feet behind her.
“Chris?” he said, slowing to a
stop.
Chris gaped at him. He looked so
different. He had a heavy five o’clock shadow, and his hair was
longer. He appeared tired—and older, somehow. He wore a Huskies
sweatshirt and black knee-length workout shorts.
“Um, hi, Mr. C,” Chris
murmured.
Mr. Corson wiped the sweat from his
brow. “What are you doing here?”
“Trying to find you,” Chris admitted.
“I—I feel awful about everything that happened.”
Mr. Corson nodded. “So do I, Chris.”
Frowning, he glanced over at the sunset and then sighed. “The big
difference is you’re still in school and you still have a
future—and me, well, I doubt I’ll be able to get a job in any
school again. That’s a done deal.”
Chris shook his head. “I’m so sorry,
Mr. C,” he said meekly.
Mr. Corson nodded toward a nearby park
bench that faced the water. “C’mon, I need to sit down and take a
break anyway. I’m so out of shape lately, it’s not even
funny.”
He lumbered toward the bench, and Chris
walked alongside him. Mr. Corson brought his hand up toward Chris’s
shoulder, but then he hesitated. Chris noticed him pull away
slightly. They sat down—with a gap between them, big enough for
another person.
“I don’t really blame you for anything,
Chris,” Mr. Corson said, staring out at the water. “It’s just that
Courtney Hahn and her pals made all those accusations about me on
Facebook and Rate-a-teacher-dot-com. So many parents—especially the
Willow Tree Court group—they got all stirred up, and it was over
absolutely nothing.”
He leaned forward and ran a hand
through his brown hair. “You know, there’s a big difference between
folks who look out for the welfare of their kids, and the ones that
spoil them rotten and let them get away with anything, simply
because they’re their kids.” He let out a
defeated laugh and shook his head. “Do you have any idea how
difficult it is for teachers nowadays? We have to put up with kids
texting and Twittering during class and then rating us online. We
have these self-righteous parents calling us up and screaming at us
about why their kid didn’t get a better
grade or more time playing in a varsity game or more pages in the
yearbook. Shit, I should be glad they fired me. I guess I’ll
survive this. But your neighbors on Willow Tree Court and the ones
like them, they’ll have to pay. They’ve raised a bunch of coddled,
selfish brats who have an overblown sense of entitlement and
absolutely no accountability. It’s going to bite them on the ass
eventually. It reminds me of this saying my wife has: ‘Time wounds all heels.’”
Dumbfounded, Chris just stared at him.
He wasn’t quite sure what Mr. Corson meant. He’d never seen him
this upset and angry before. Did Mr. Corson consider him a
selfish, coddled brat?
It turned darker—and colder—in a matter
of minutes. Chris shivered and rubbed his arms to fight off the
chill. “Is there anything I can do—anybody I can talk to—that will
help you get your job back?”
“No, it’s too late for that,” Mr.
Corson sighed. “The damage has been done. When I think of poor Ian
Scholl . . .” He rubbed his eyes. “No, Chris, you can’t fix it. All
the gossip and lies have taken their toll. My marriage is pretty
much a shambles now—along with my finances. Plus my daughter,
Tracy, this has really hurt her, and she’s been acting out in all
sorts of—disturbing ways. I’m really worried about her.
Fortunately, Todd is too young to understand what’s happening. I
think maybe we’ll sell our home here and move to the East Coast,
try to start over. . . .”
Biting his lip, Chris tried to think of
something he could say to make Mr. Corson feel better—the way Mr.
Corson had always seemed to know exactly what to say to him. The
only thing that came to mind was one of Molly’s expressions:
This too shall pass. But he was worried he
might sound like a smart-ass. And besides, it hardly seemed true in
this case.
“You didn’t come here to listen to how
shitty my life has become,” Mr. Corson said. “You came here because
you feel bad and don’t want me blaming you. Well, I don’t blame
you, Chris.”
“But you got such a raw deal, Mr. C,
and I feel like—”
“You saw something that confused and
disturbed you, so you went to your stepmother about it, and things
just got out of hand. It wasn’t your fault, Chris.” He gave him a
sad smile. “Even if I was mad at you for a while, I couldn’t stay
angry at you. It sounds corny, but you’ve been like a son to me—and
I’ll always think of you that way.”
Chris could see the tears in his eyes.
Mr. Corson cleared his throat and then suddenly stood up. “Listen,
I should go. Obviously, your mom and dad don’t know you’re here
meeting with me. If it ever got back to them—well, there’d be hell
to pay for both of us.”
Chris quickly got to his feet. “Can I
get your new e-mail address or—or—or phone number? I don’t want
this to be—”
“No,” Mr. Corson said, cutting him off.
“That’s a bad idea. Your parents wouldn’t want you communicating
with me, Chris.” As he spoke, he kept glancing down at the
ground—and not at him. “I don’t want it, either. I don’t think we
should see each other again. . . .”
“Oh, c’mon, Mr. C, you can’t mean
that.”
But Chris saw the tired, defeated look
on Mr. Corson’s face—and he knew his beloved guidance counselor
meant every word.
Chris’s heart sank. He went to hug
him.
“Don’t,” Mr. Corson muttered, backing
away. “That’s what got me into trouble in the first place. You
should know better than anybody.” He took a deep breath, then
grabbed Chris’s hand and shook it. “Good-bye, Chris. Good
luck.”
“Bye,” Chris murmured. Dazed, he
watched him turn and start toward the trail. “Mr. C!” he called,
his voice cracking. “Mr. C, if it weren’t for you, I never would
have made it through the last year! Mr. Corson?”
A few people on the track stared at
him. But Mr. Corson didn’t even turn around. He started running
down the trail, and never looked back.
That was the last time Chris saw
him.
And now he was going to his
wake.
At least, he hoped to go—if the bus
ever showed up. With a lump in his throat, Chris glanced at his
wristwatch: 1:35. The bus was fifteen minutes late. He felt so
lonely and lost. He hated going to this wake alone—and facing all
those people who might hate him. He should have asked Elvis to come
with him.
He took off his sunglasses and
anxiously peered down the street. No sign of the bus. But he
recognized Molly’s dark green Saturn coming up the street. It was
close enough that she probably saw him. And from what he could
tell, she was alone in the car.
His mouth open, he watched her pull
over to the stop. With a hum, the front passenger window descended.
Chris leaned toward the car and suddenly remembered he was wearing
a tie. His hand came up to cover it, but too late. “Um, what’s
going on?” he asked.
“I could ask you the same thing,” Molly
said with a wry smile. “I like your tie.”
Mortified, he took his hand away. He
noticed she was wearing a dark, formal coat and a black dress. Her
blond hair was all done up.
“Where’s Erin?” he asked, still
hovering close to the car.
“I called Marlys Bourm to see if Erin
could get a ride with Allyse. They just picked her up five minutes
ago. She’s a little disappointed I’m not going to the recital, but
she’ll survive. Besides, your mother will be there.”
“So—where are you going?”
“To a wake—with you,” Molly said.
“C’mon, get in.”
Chris stared at her and blinked. “How
did you—”
“I’ll tell you on the way,” she said,
cutting him off. “Get in—before we cause a traffic
jam.”
Chris quickly opened the passenger door
and climbed inside.
“If you’re so determined to go to this
wake, despite everything your father told you and all his
warnings,” Molly said, glancing in the side mirror, “well, honey,
you shouldn’t have to face that crowd all by
yourself.”
Chris felt the lump in his throat
return. He was so grateful for the company, for the ride, and for
her uncanny intuition. He almost went to hug her. But he held back
and strapped himself in with the seat belt.
“Thanks, Molly,” was all he
said.
“Okay, here’s what I think we should
do,” Molly whispered to Chris as they stepped into Bonney-Watson
Funeral Home’s elegant lobby. It resembled the foyer of a rich, old
estate. Vases of flowers and Kleenex boxes were strategically
placed on mahogany tables between cushioned chairs and love seats.
“Once you see Mrs. Corson,” Molly continued, “we’ll wait until
she’s alone or down to just one person talking to her—and then
we’ll make our approach. Say what you need to say, and then let’s
beat a hasty retreat.”
Chris looked nervous. “Um, Molly, I—I
don’t know what Mrs. Corson looks like. I’ve never met
her.”
She was thrown for a loop for a moment,
but then she nodded and straightened his tie. “Well, okay, we’ll
just figure it out. You look nice.”
By a double doorway at their right, a
small placard on the wall had CORSON spelled out in white plastic
letters on a ribbed black velvet background. Molly and Chris
stepped into the crowded room and made their way toward the closed
bronze casket at the far end. Molly guessed there were about a
hundred people attending the wake. She stopped and asked a skinny,
twentysomething woman if she could point out Mrs. Corson for
them.
The woman nodded in the direction of
the casket. “Mrs. Corson’s over there in the black dress.” she
said. Then she moved on.
“Well, that narrows it down to about
twelve women in the general vicinity,” Molly muttered to Chris.
“C’mon, let’s see if we can weed her out.”
Hesitating, he glanced around the room.
“I’m not so sure about this now.”
“Well, personally, I agree with your
dad,” Molly whispered. “It’s a bad idea, Chris. You have no idea
how she’s going to react. My guess is we won’t be welcomed with
open arms. So just say the word and we’re out of here. If you’re so
determined to apologize to her, you can always do it in a sympathy
card.”
Biting his lip, he stood there for a
few moments. He shifted his weight on one foot and then the
other.
Molly remembered over a year ago, going
to that woman’s front door on Gunnison Street in Chicago and trying
to apologize to her—only to end up with a face full of spittle for
her efforts.
“I vote we leave,” Molly
said.
But Chris shook his head. “No, I need
to do this.” He started toward the casket.
Molly followed him. She spotted a pale,
dowdy, brown-haired woman in an unflattering wrap-around black
dress. Two people were talking to her—and one of them was holding
her hand in a consoling way. Beside her stood a bored-looking
teenage girl with heavy Goth eye makeup and stringy black hair. She
had on a black skirt and a ratty, black sweater with sleeves that
came down to her fingers.
“Do you think that might be her?” Molly
whispered.
“I—I guess,” Chris replied under his
breath. “It sounds mean, but I always thought Mr. Corson’s wife
would be really pretty. They have a daughter around my age—and
she’s supposed to be kind of weird. So maybe . . .”
The two people moved away from the
woman, and Molly meekly approached her. “Mrs. Corson?”
The woman stared at her. “I’m
Ms. Corson. I’m Ray’s sister, Sherry.” She
held out her hand.
Molly shook it. “Hello, Sherry. I’m so
sorry for your loss. My name’s Molly Dennehy.”
“This is my daughter, Serena. . . .”
Ray Corson’s sister started to gesture toward the teenage girl. But
she hesitated. “Did you say Dennehy?”
“Yes,” Chris piped up. “I’m Chris. Mr.
Corson was my guidance counselor at James Monroe. I was hoping I
could talk with Mrs. Corson. . . .”
“Dennehy,” the
woman repeated, scowling at them. “I know that name. I’ve heard
about you from Jenna.”
“I’d like to talk with her—and—and—and
explain some things,” Chris said in a shaky voice.
Molly put a hand on his shoulder. She
could feel him trembling.
Ray Corson’s sister slowly shook her
head. “You have a lot of nerve showing up here.”
Molly cleared her throat. “If we could
just talk to your sister-in-law . . .”
“Jenna is in Yakima with her sister,”
Sherry whispered. “She’s in no condition to see anyone. . .
.”
“Well, she went there before Uncle Ray
was killed even,” the girl piped up. “She was ready to leave
him—”
“Serena, please,” her mother
growled.
“Well, she was!” the girl said, rolling
her eyes. “And still, Uncle Ray left everything to her. Anyway,
Aunt Jenna’s not even in Yakima right now—”
“That’s enough, young lady,” her mother
hissed. “Why don’t you see if Grandma Berry needs a glass of water
or something?”
The girl rolled her eyes again. “Excuse
me for living,” she muttered, wandering off.
“Do you happen to have her address in
Yakima?” Molly asked. “Someplace we can send a card or
flowers?”
“Haven’t you done enough damage?” she
asked. “For God’s sake, leave her alone. She’s been through hell,
thanks to you people.”
“Is—is their daughter okay?” Chris
asked suddenly. “The last time I talked with him, Mr. Corson said
he was worried about her, because she was having a lot of
problems.”
“Tracy ran away two months ago,” Sherry
said. “She hasn’t been seen or heard from since. Now, if you don’t
have any more questions, would you please leave? I have nothing
more to say to you.”
“I’m sorry,” Chris murmured. “I really
am.”
“My condolences,” Molly said to the
woman. She gave Chris’s shoulder a squeeze. “C’mon,
honey.”
She steered him toward the exit. She
noticed Serena, the Goth girl, talking with an old woman. She gave
Chris a crooked smile, but he seemed oblivious. Molly waited until
they reached the lobby before she patted him on the back. “Are you
okay?” she whispered. “I know that was rough. But you have to
remember, people say things they don’t really mean when they’re
grieving.”
He jerked away from her. “Would you
leave me alone?” he grumbled.
Perplexed, Molly backed off. “Fine. . .
.”
“I’m going to take the bus home,
okay?”
“Why? Chris, honey, that doesn’t make
sense. Are you upset at me about something?”
Chris hurried for the door and ducked
outside. Molly went after him. He paused by the entry—under an
awning that was flapping in the wind. He put on his
sunglasses.
“Chris, what’s wrong?” Molly asked him.
“Are you angry with me?”
“You’re the one who insisted we go to
the principal about Mr. Corson.” He shook his head. “I never should
have told you what I saw. None of it would have happened if I’d
just kept my mouth shut.”
“You’re blaming me?” Molly asked. “For
this?” She motioned toward the glass double doors to the funeral
parlor. “Chris, Mr. Corson isn’t dead because of us. What happened
back in December—”
“Leave me alone!” he yelled, cutting
her off. “God!”
A passerby on the sidewalk stared at
them. Chris glanced down at the pavement. “I’m taking the bus
back,” he said quietly.
Molly sighed. “Suit yourself. But can I
say something?”
“What?” he muttered.
“Why is it, Chris, every time I start
to feel we’re really connecting, you pull the rug out from under
me? And once again, I’m just this stranger you resent, living in
your mother’s house.”
“Pull the rug out from
under me,” he repeated. “Is that another one of your
expressions? Because I don’t understand it.”
“Yes, you do,” she replied. “You know
exactly what I’m talking about. You did it to me again just
now.”
She turned and started down the
sidewalk. “Be home in time for supper,” she called over her
shoulder. “Your father’s expecting you.”
Molly knew she’d worry about him until
then.