Trail of Secrets Read Free

“Good advice coming from one so young. You fancy yourself a wit, young Bannon?”
    â€œWell half, anyway,” I quipped. Some lines are called groaners with good reason.

    The first thing I did when I climbed the stairs to my bedroom was turn on my computer. Mom had bought it for me as a gift for being in her wedding party, and I’d set it up on an old oak desk that Dad had salvaged from the curb where someone had put it out as garbage. He’d stripped the wood down but so far hadn’t gotten around to refinishing it. I didn’t mind the stressed look, which kind of suited the rest of my room. As I waited for my machine to boot up, I looked around, assessing what was left to be done. I’d painted two walls a deep violet and hung a bamboo blind and shear white curtain over the window. I’d bought a cream colour paint for the other two walls, but it was still in the can that had become myfootstool. Dad had bought me a new mattress for the twin bed we’d found at a flea market, and I’d covered it with a new white blanket. I’d rescued Grandma Bannon’s hooked rug from my old bedroom and my stuffed bear Benny, but not much else from Mom’s. Dad had promised to build me a bookshelf, but until then, my books were stacked in piles at the foot of my bed. The room was starting to feel like mine but was far from complete. Martha Stewart would have taken one look and rolled up her sleeves. I reminded myself to hang the posters that I’d tucked away in my closet and find a place for the pictures that were packed in a box under my bed.
    The home page sprang up, and I eagerly clicked on my e-mail. I searched for Pete’s name, but besides a few jokes forwarded from Ambie, my inbox was empty. No sign of his promised message. I put the computer to sleep without opening Ambie’s jokes. The day had been pretty much a washout. I wasn’t feeling like doing anything much except climbing into bed and falling asleep as soon as I possibly could.

CHAPTER THREE
    Three days after Pete left for university, I got a two-line e-mail from him that told me he’d arrived and was getting oriented, with a promise to write more later. I sent back one almost as short, telling him it was good to hear from him, and I hoped he had more time to write soon. I figured playing it cool was the best way to go. Pete would be in touch when he had time. I just had to have faith.
    On Friday afternoon, Dad came home for lunch and finally got a hold of Mom in L.A. He’d been trying all week, but she had decided at the last minute to fly with Mr. Putterman to Miami after she’d spoken with Leslie. I was sitting on the back steps with the door open, sucking on some ice cubes at the bottom of my glass of iced tea when the phone rang, so I heard most of Dad’s side of the conversation. I could pretty much imagine what Mom’s side must have sounded like.
    â€œShe wants to stay here,” Dad said at one point. “I know you have custody, but we have to go with what’s best for Leslie. She’s not eating or sleeping well . . . no, she keeps saying she wants to stay in Springhills.”
    I could hear the exasperation creeping into his voice. “Why don’t we try it until Christmas? We can reassess then. I know it would be good for her to see more of theworld, but she’s had a lot of upheaval this year.” Then his voice dropped, and I had to strain to hear. “They both miss you, Alice, but this is the way it is. You can’t separate them. It would just be too hard.”
    I’d heard as much as I could take, and as quietly as possible, I stood and headed down the steps and out of the backyard by the side gate. I started jogging down Sunnydale then turned onto Pine Glen, detouring onto the bike path at the end of the block, picking up speed until I was running at a good clip. I put my mind into neutral and concentrated on my breathing and the