Chosen for Death Read Online Free PDF Page A

everyone to open up, do more, say more, until I felt as though I'd asked and answered every question myself. I knew that memories of Carrie, and the sense that we'd failed her, rested heavily on everyone in the room.
    Yesterday I'd made her a promise that her killer would be found. Today that didn't look so easy. This detective wouldn't be here talking to us if the police had an obvious suspect or anything better to go on. And we weren't giving him much. There had been a couple of calls from Carrie on my answering machine in the last month. Calls I hadn't gotten around to returning yet, because I'd been so busy. If I'd answered them, I might know something that would be useful to the police. Or they might have been calls for help.
    "Do you have any idea who killed Carolyn?" my mother asked.
    "I'm afraid we don't, Mrs. McKusick," he said. "Not at this point in time." He seemed genuinely sorry, but then, catching criminals was his job, so maybe he was just sorry because it meant more work to do. Maybe he'd hoped one of us would confess. I didn't know why I was letting this detective bother me so much. He hadn't said one harsh word to anyone. Maybe it was because it was so important that he find Carrie's killer and he admitted he didn't have a clue. Maybe I was just worn out from the scene with Todd. And remembering David.
    I got up to see him out and found my legs were so shaky I barely made it to the door. I had to lean against the wall to keep from falling over. He didn't miss it, either. He hesitated in the doorway. "Mrs. Kozak," he said, "are you all right?"
    "Fine," I said, too loudly. "I'm just tired."
    "Mr. Kozak isn't with you?" he asked.
    "Mr. Kozak," I said, "is dead." I shut the door in his face.

Chapter 4

    After Detective Lemieux left, my mother served lunch. It was a generous spread, her usual, and everything looked delicious, but no one had much appetite. The only one who did it justice was Uncle Henry. Dad and Henry used to have eating contests when they were kids. Their mother, my grandma, used to tell us about it when we were little. Once Dad and Henry ate almost an entire turkey between them. The only trouble was that Grandma had cooked it to make turkey salad for a church supper and she wasn't pleased.
    I was thinking about what Mom had said and wondering if she blamed herself for Carrie's death because of the fight. It wasn't something I could come right out and ask her, but it was something to watch for. Mom wasn't the type to let others know she was worried. She believed in putting up a good front and keeping her troubles to herself. We were a strange bunch, really. Right up front about opinions, politics, and current events, and very private about feelings.
    As soon as I decently could, I said good-bye to everyone, threw my things into a suitcase, and left. Michael was right behind me, though why anyone would be in a hurry to get back to Sonia was a mystery to me. The weather was gloomy, which suited my mood just fine. It was a real nothing sort of day—too warm to be cold and too cold to be warm. Too cloudy to be sunny and too bright to be cloudy. Mid-September isn't a big time for Sunday drivers, those mindless cruisers who can drive you to distraction and folly when you're trying to make time, so the traffic was light. My Saab carried me smoothly along, lulled by its husky throb, at only slightly more than the speed limit, and it was a quick trip up Route 128 from south of the city, where my parents lived, to my condo. Route 128 is the major road that loops around the city. In boom times, back before Massachusetts lost so many jobs, it was aptly called America's Technology Highway. The impressive buildings are still there, crowning the hills along the road, but now a lot of them sport big banners proclaiming space for rent.
    I pulled into the lot and past the wide swath of brown bark mulch and blooming chrysanthemums outside my door. I guess it looks neater but I'm no fan of covering the world with