The Drowning Game Read Free Page A

a lawn and planted crops.
    Watching out that window occupied me until the crowd began to thin—­first the firemen departed, then the paramedics, the police, and finally the coroner and his minions pushing Dad’s black-­bagged body out on a gurney. Randy King was the last one there, still standing against the wall in the living room. Something about him, that pose, made me think of Curly in Of Mice and Men .
    â€œIf you want to go up and pick out a suit for your daddy to be buried in, I’ll take it on over to the mortuary,” he said from under the hat. I was glad I didn’t have to look at those pinprick pupils of his.
    I went up the stairs and stopped in front of Dad’s bedroom door. It was as if there was electric fencing keeping me from going in, powered by my dad’s glare. But I didn’t have time to psych myself up. The sooner I got the clothes, the sooner I could get this last person out of the house, and the closer I would be to having the house to myself, doing whatever I wanted, for the first time ever.
    I’d never been in Dad’s closet, of course. I pulled on the string attached to the ceiling bulb but nothing happened. The light probably hadn’t worked for years. Out in his room was a large flashlight. I switched it on and headed back into the closet. The wide beam threw light on several pairs of faded jeans, a lot of camo wear, and a few collared shirts.
    These had belonged to the only other person I’d ever really known, and suddenly I was terrified. The flashlight slid from my grip as a scream built in my chest. I covered my mouth with both hands to prevent it from escaping and stumbled forward into his clothes, which caught me with empty arms. I sank to the floor crying silent tears. Bottomless grief threatened to smother me. On my knees, I pressed the fabric to my face and inhaled, the faint scent bringing back Dad almost in full form and life. But he was gone, and I was alone.
    Then I heard careful footsteps climbing stairs. From the hollowness of the sound, I knew someone was coming up from the basement. The steps were hesitant, and I realized the person was trying not to make any noise. I froze, listening. The feet were now on the main floor, walking toward the front door. I catwalked to the top of the stairs and saw Randy King holding a large cardboard box with the letters M R written on it in black Magic Marker. On top of that was Dad’s laptop with its L-­shaped dent.
    But what was in the box? And where was Randy taking it and the laptop?
    I tiptoed back into Dad’s room and watched out the window as Randy carried the box and computer to his truck. He put them in the front seat and headed back toward the house.
    Once back inside, he called, “Petty? You all right up there?”
    I heard booted feet—­decisive and confident this time—­mount the stairs. I ran into the closet and pulled out Dad’s three-­piece suit. No way would I be trapped in a bedroom with this guy, who’d come into my house and removed things without my permission, who seemed to believe that he belonged here. He didn’t. I didn’t know him at all, but his presence, which felt like a sickness, seemed to take up a lot more space than it should have. I got out of the room as Randy was about to enter it and thrust the clothes at him. He took them wordlessly, turned and started down the stairs.
    â€œYou don’t need to worry about funeral arrangements,” he said. “Your dad left instructions with me.”
    Worrying about funeral arrangements hadn’t occurred to me, but I nodded at the back of his descending head. At the bottom of the stairs, Randy turned and slid his hat back on. “You gonna be all right? You want me to stay with you tonight?”
    I was so shocked by the question I couldn’t respond. I just stared dumbly.
    He shook his head and smiled a little. “Suit yourself,” he said, and walked out