JOSIE
“Grams? What’s going on?”
Grandma hurriedly wipes her cheeks with her fingers. “Nothing, sweetheart. Didn’t hear you come in.”
Mrs. Snickett, with her usual resting drill-sergeant face, gives me an unfriendly glance. “Hard to hear someone eavesdropping behind the door.”
The chief walks up and pats me on the shoulder. “How are you?” Without waiting for a reply, he walks out.
“What’s going on?” I ask both Grandma and Mrs. Snickett.
“Nothing,” Mrs. Snickett answers as Grandma stares at her hands. “Why don’t you give us a minute?”
“I’ll be in my room.”
“No, kiddo. We need a moment alone.”
Seriously? She is kicking me out of my house? Grandma still won’t look at me, while Mrs. Snickett calmly stares me down.
“Sure,” I say, grabbing my purse from the counter and tightly holding on to it and my irritation as I stomp out.
When I get back to Rika’s car, she searches my face like I’m supposed to tell her where the body is. “And?”
I tell her what I heard, the end of the conversation, and my grandmother bawling in front of everyone—for the first time in decades.
“I’m sure she didn’t shed a tear even when she found out about her cancer,” I say. “But she didn’t say a word when your nana kicked me out of the house.”
Rika laughs, turning on the engine. “Let’s grab lunch.”
“Yeah. I need something. A drink this time. Or two.”
“Listen, you have to be patient. Things will either settle or…”
She doesn’t finish the sentence. “Or?”
“Or not settle,” she states.
“Brilliant.”
She does a little half bow at the wheel. “I know, Boots. That’s me.”
Every day is another secret, and I’m mulling over what I heard in the kitchen all the way to the hoagie shop.
“I think there’s a very high probability that the kidnapper is my father,” I say as we eat lunch.
“Anyone who’s ever read the court transcripts of the trial knew there was a high probability of that. And he might not be a kidnapper. Clearly, someone else is involved, since he’s dead now.”
“Does Trevor have any new intel?”
“Not that I know of.”
“No news from the police department?”
“Honestly, I hope it stays that way,” Rika says in a grim voice.
That makes me think of Grandma, so I send her a text.
Me: Is everything okay?
She responds right away.
Grams: Everything is fine. Are you at work?
Me: Grabbing lunch with Rika. Is Mrs. Snickett still there?
Grams: She left.
Me: Are you sure you are okay?
Grams: I am fine.
Fine is the most ambiguous answer ever. Fine is not good. Fine is not okay. Fine means you are putting up with life, and putting up is a beast that turns living into existing, as you ignore the issues.
Grams: Do you want me to make your favorite beef potato stew?
Me: I’d love that!
As long as it’s not pancakes.
Me: Can I invite Rika over?
Grams: I’d love that.
I want them to meet properly. Right now, Rika is my only friend around here.
“Everything’s good?” Rika asks me as if she knows I’m talking about her.
I smile. “Yeah. Grams is making beef potato stew. Are you working late tonight?”
“No. Why? What’s up?”
I purse my lips, hiding my excitement, knowing that this will be an unusual invitation. “Wanna come over for late dinner?”
She beams. “Hell, yeah. Dinner with Ma Boots? I’m in.”
The thought stays with me for a while as Rika drops me off at the car wash place, and I pick up my car and drive to the diner.
It’s nine o’clock by the time I finish the paperwork in the office and check the register.
It’s dark outside, no rain—that’s good. I’m looking forward to having dinner with Grandma and Rika.
Not the takeout stuff from the diner, but an actual home-cooked meal.
Grandma is a great cook, but I’ve been eating at the diner a lot lately because somehow, I thought that cooking was an extra effort for Grandma in her condition.
I realize that she won’t stop her routine anytime soon.
She loves cooking, just like many other things I’ve forced her to cut down on thinking it’s too hard on her.
Only when I pull up at the house does my mood sink. There are no lights in the house. That means that Grandma either didn’t cook or went to bed early. Which, in its turn, means she’s not well, which already sets me on edge.
But something is wrong. I know it when I realize that the usual light outside the kitchen window is not on either. That light never goes off, not even in the daytime.
I park the car, hurry to the patio, and flip the switch inside.
The light doesn’t come on.
Huh.
I open the door to the kitchen and flip the light switch there, but the light doesn’t come on either.
I tense up. This is strange. Maybe the circuit breakers are out. But why wouldn’t Grandma tell me?
In pitch black, the smell hits me first. It’s the smell of garlic and fresh bread, but nothing is being cooked. I can’t feel the heat from the oven.
Then I see a heap on the floor, a black shadow of a hump.
“Grams?” My heart gives out a panicking thud. “Grams?”
I rush to her, fall down to my knees, and touch her. “Grams? Grams!”
She won’t respond.
I pull the phone out of my coat pocket.
But then I hear a voice coming from the other corner of the kitchen. “Put the phone down, or I’ll shoot.”