Furious Jones and the Assassin’s Secret Read Free

Jones.”
    The applause grew even louder and the audience stood as my dad entered the spotlight and crossed the stage to the podium, waving to the crowd. He was about fifteen feet from me now. We hadn’t been this close in seven months. Not since I’d stood next to him at my mom’s funeral.
    He looked tired and older than I remembered him. He had deep lines under his eyes, and his hair seemed thinner and lighter. He looked like he had aged ten years in sevenmonths. Could my mom’s death have taken that big of a toll? He certainly had not been himself since her murder. He’d called me every few days after the funeral. And he had sounded different. Paranoid. He kept asking about my safety. Was Grandpa taking me to school every day? Did he have a police officer stay at the school? Had I received any strange phone calls or messages? He kept reminding me not to talk to strangers, like I was five years old. I don’t know who was worse, my dad or my grandpa. My mom’s murder must have taken a toll on both of them. Well, all of us, I guess.
    My dad motioned for everyone to sit down. He still hadn’t noticed me in the front row. The room was dark, and the spotlight was shining bright in his eyes. Maybe he couldn’t see me, and I would get away with this after all.
    The room quieted and we sat.
    â€œThank you. It’s wonderful to see so many of you here tonight. And I’d like to thank Richard and the Friends of the Library for having me here tonight.
    â€œAs I look around this room,” my dad said, scanning the crowd, “and see so many familiar faces, it’s hard to believe we’ve been doing this for over—”
    My dad froze as our eyes met. The smile drained from his face.
    â€œAh,” he tried to continue. “It’s, ah, hard to believe that I’ve been writing these books for over six years now.”
    He stopped again and just stared at me. I had never seenthis expression before, but he didn’t look happy to see me. The crowd started to look in my direction. And then my dad locked eyes with Attorney General Como. He stared at Como. And Como stared back. Then Como gave my dad a little wave.
    My dad looked away. “And in another six years, I hope to be doing this still. I think Carson has a lot of adventures left in him.”
    He paused again. He looked over at me again. And then he looked down at the podium.
    He said nothing.
    Thirty seconds passed.
    A minute passed.
    A murmur started to grow from the crowd.
    But he just kept staring at the podium.
    I had never seen him like this.
    He looked broken.
    Sad.
    Scared.
    My dad was never scared.
    Was this because of me?
    What should I do?
    Should I get up and go? Would he follow me? Could he? He had a room full of people here to see him. Maybe I could get back to my grandpa’s house before he called. I could explain it all to my grandpa and apologize. He would see that I was okay, and I’d promise never to do it again.
    I was just about to stand up when he looked forward and continued talking.
    â€œKidd’s newest adventure has its roots in Chicago,” he finally spoke. “And by definition, Chicago stinks. In the language of the Potawatomi Indian tribe, the word ‘Chicago’ literally means ‘wild and smelly onion.’ In the Algonquian tribe, the word ‘Chicago’ means ‘smells bad.’
    â€œThe one thing historians and scholars are unclear about, however, is whether those early dwellers were referring to the wild leeks that were abundant along the river, or if it was early social commentary describing corrupt Chicago politics and the infestation of the Sicilian mafia.”
    The crowd started to laugh, and I stood up and walked toward the aisle.
    â€œThe new book opens in a small Illinois town,” my dad said. Then he let out a large sigh. “And I’ve got to tell you, this is far and away my darkest and most twisted book to date. I