Deadly Read Free Page B

party, son?”
    â€œI came home. Went to sleep.”
    â€œHow did you get home?”
    â€œI walked.”
    â€œFrom Washington Avenue? That’s a long way.”
    I shrug. “I like walking.”
    â€œAnybody see you?”
    â€œSee me what?”
    â€œWalking.”
    â€œI guess so. I mean, there were cars going by.”
    â€œAnd did you speak to your parents when you got in?”
    â€œNo. It was late. Dad’s out of town. I didn’t want to disturb Mom.”
    The cop turns toward Mom. “Did you hear Eric come in, ma’am?”
    â€œAfraid not,” Mom says. “I took a pill around midnight. Dead to the world until this morning. Sorry, sweetie,” she says to me.
    I shrug again. The officers exchange a glance that must mean the interview is over. The woman closes her notebook. The man puts a business card on the granite countertop. “Call anytime,” he says. “If you hear anything. Either of you.”
    Mom nods and slides off the stool. She staggers a little and grabs the male cop’s arm. “Oopsie daisy,” she says.
    I watch as she walks them to the door, weaving slightly. She waves goodbye and trills, “Toodles” as they get in their cruiser. Then she shuts the door and strides back to me. Her back is straight, her footsteps steady, her voice clipped and precise.
    â€œWhat have you done this time, Eric?” she says.

Chapter Five

Amy
    I’m not one of those girls who writes in her journal every day and dreams of being the next Stephenie Meyer or whatever. I never read anything unless I have to for school. Mom says that when I was little, I loved books, but somewhere along the way I stopped. She thinks it was because I got so serious about dance. I think it was because all the books we had to read for school were completely lame. I still get good marks in English though. So writing a few essays shouldn’t be too hard. Especially if it will get me out of here. I push away the thought that it might not.
    I get a pen and a pad of paper out of the drawer and sit down at the table. Which sin should I start with? I look at the letter again. Lust, greed, gluttony, sloth, envy, wrath, pride. The Seven Deadly Sins don’t sound all that deadly. If I think about lust, I’m going to think about Eric. I wish we hadn’t fought. I wish I’d left the party with him. I wish that chick Shawna had left me alone. No, I don’t want to write about lust. Maybe sloth would be good. The image of a weird animal hanging upside down in a tree comes to my mind. That’s not the kind of sloth I’m supposed to write about, I’m pretty sure. I doodle on the pad for a minute—a daisy with two leaves— then start to write.
    Sloth is another word for laziness. When I was little, Beth was always the one Mom called lazybones. Beth’s not a morning person. I am. Mom says Beth and I are like our births. Beth took forever to come out. I tried to be born early. Beth moves slowly. I move fast. But Beth’s not lazy. Not really. She just takes her time doing things. Like spreading peanut butter on her toast in the morning. Or getting dressed. It makes me crazy. But she’s not lazy. Especially now, when she has to go to physio three times a week. And do exercises every day, probably for the rest of her life. She has to work so hard just to get from point A to point B.
    No, the lazy one in my family is my dad. I remember him coming home from work and parking himself on the couch with a beer and a book. Even though she worked full-time too, Mom would still make dinner, do the laundry, help us with our homework, read us bedtime stories and make our lunches for the next day. Dad was supposed to take care of the yard and the house. You know. Mow the lawn. Clean the gutters. Let’s just say that when they sold the house after the divorce, it was listed as a fixer-upper. Lazy. Slothful. That’s my dad. Funny and