Tags:
Abandon,
serial,
J.A. Konrath,
Blake Crouch,
locked doors,
snowbound,
desert places,
scary,
bad girl,
Suspenseful,
perfect little town,
four live rounds,
serial uncut,
thrilling,
draculas,
shaken
Dad’s passing.
“That’s a pretty fucked-up thing to say.”
“I didn’t mean it like—”
“No, you’re saying she’s better off without
him.”
Beyond the kitchen, Tim heard the middle step
of the staircase creak—Laura working her way down from the
bedroom—and he wondered if Martin had heard it. The last two steps
were noisy as well, and then came the front door you could hear
opening from Argentina. Nothing else to do but get him riled and
noisy.
“Yeah, Martin, I guess I am saying she’s
better off without him. What’d he do these last five years but
cause us all a lot of heartache? And what’d you do but step in as
Dad’s faithful apologist?”
Another creak.
“Ever heard of honor thy father, Tim?”
Martin’s cheeks had flushed with the whiskey and Tim wondered if
he’d intended to raise his voice like he had. His brother’s back
was to the archway between the kitchen and the living room, and as
Tim saw Laura enter the foyer and start toward the front door, he
tried to avert his eyes.
“You know he beat Mom.”
“Once, Tim. One fucking time. And it was a
total accident. He didn’t mean to shove her as hard as he did.”
Laura turning the deadbolt now. “And it tore him up that he did it.
You weren’t here when it happened. Didn’t see him crying like a
goddamn two-year-old, sitting in his own vomit, did you?” Tim could
hear the hinges creaking. “No,” Martin answered his own question as
the front door swung open, cold streaming in. “You were in
college.” Laura slipped outside, eased the door closed behind her.
“Becoming a teacher.” Any curiosity Tim had harbored concerning his
brother’s opinion of his chosen profession instantly wilted.
“You’re right,” Tim said. “Sorry. I just…part
of me’s still so pissed at him, you know?”
Martin lifted the bottle, took a long drink,
wiped his mouth.
“Of course I know.”
Tim pulled Old Grandad across the table,
wondering how long it would take Laura. If the cruiser was locked,
there’d be nothing she could do but come right back inside. If it
was open, might take her a minute or two of searching the front
seats to find the phone, another thirty seconds to figure out how
to work Martin’s cell, check his call history.
He sipped the whiskey, pushed the bottle back
to Martin.
“Wish you’d come over more,” Tim said. “Feel
like I don’t see you much these days.”
“See me every Sunday at Mom’s.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
Tim wanted to ask Martin if he felt that
wedge between them, met his brother’s eyes across the table, but
couldn’t bring himself to say the words. They didn’t operate on
that frequency.
A frigid mist fogged Laura’s glasses, and
with the porchlight out, she took her time descending the steps,
the soles of her slippers holding a tenuous grip on the wet brick.
The fog had thickened since Martin’s arrival, the streetlamps
putting out a glow far dimmer and more diffused than their normal
sharp points of illumination—now just smudges of light in the
distance.
She hurried down the sidewalk that curved
from the house to the driveway.
Martin had parked his police cruiser behind
the old Honda Civic she’d had since her junior year of high school,
over 200,000 miles on the odometer and not a glimmer of
senility.
Laura walked around to the front door on the
passenger side, out of the sight-line of the living room windows.
She reached to open the front passenger door, wondering if Martin’s
cruiser carried an alarm. If so, she was about to wake up everyone
on the block, and had better prepare herself to explain to her
brother-in-law why she’d tried to break into his car.
The door opened. Interior lights blazing. No
screeching alarm. The front seat filthy—Chick-Fil-A wrappers and
crushed Cheerwine cans in the floorboards.
She leaned over the computer in the central
console, inspected the driver seat.
No phone.
Two minutes of leafing through the myriad
papers