blocked. But I did also have a “trapline” using an 877 toll-free number, which recorded all incoming numbers whether the ID was blocked or not. Traplines are one of my many crafty tools.
In a skewed sort of way Hooded Man’s paranoia bound us together. We were both scared of what Baxter Jackson would do if he discovered my mission.
I sat down before my office computer. The clock read 9:18 p.m. Outside, the rain clawed my windows like some monster come to beg.
A shudder kicked across my shoulders.
It could be a late night, depending on how long it took until I exhausted my online tricks. This wasn’t exactly the time of day I could pick up the phone to verify information I unearthed. I’d need two things to get me through: Jelly Bellies and music.
In my bottom drawer, I consulted my Jelly Belly stash. All fifty flavors were there, each labeled in its own plastic zip bag. I pulled out Sizzling Cinnamon—my flavor for mad. Cappuccino for raw determination. Green Apple for sassiness. The last one was a lie, but I needed all the encouragement I could get. I ate two of those green babies, one after the other.
From my iTunes I selected my huge playlist of classic rock and clicked shuffle . Chicago flicked on—“Baby, What a Big Surprise.”
Apropos.
Pumped up and ready, I opened a new file, then hesitated in naming it. If the worst happened and Baxter somehow discovered what I was doing, I didn’t want Melissa’s information easily found on my computer.
My fingers typed in “HM” for Hooded Man.
The familiar thrill skidded down my spine. The hunt had begun.
SEVEN
JUNE 2004
Melissa stumbles up the hall from her tiny bedroom, arms against the thin walls for balance. The smelly trailer lists to one side, as if it’s about to fall over. Melissa’s feet slide and drag, the hallway never-ending. She’s heard a noise and needs to see what has happened. It’s something terrible. Now it’s so eerily quiet, not a peep from her mother. “Mom!” Melissa calls, but the only response is the echo of her own frightened voice. She tries to move faster, but her muscles feel like they’re weighted with lead.
The trailer stretches, stretches, until it’s as long as a football field. Chill bumps pop out on Melissa’s arms. Way at the end she can see the back of their ragged couch, the metal frame around the front door. Beyond the living area lies the tiny, crusted kitchen. No movement there. No stream of mumbled cussing. Where is her mother?
Cigarette smoke thickens the air. Melissa sucks the biting odor into her lungs with every panted breath. Fear and rage swirl in her head until she can’t tell one from the other.
The trailer shifts. Suddenly she’s in the living room. She focuses across the small area, over the stained carpet onto broken linoleum at the kitchen’s edge.
Sticking out from behind a cabinet is a bare, yellow-toenailed foot.
A squeak pushes up Melissa’s throat. She runs around the couch, cuts left toward the kitchen. She jumps past the cabinets—and sees the blood.
Her mother lies on the floor, face up, eyes open and glazed. A shocked expression wrenches her hardened face, as if she’s just stared into hell. A gash digs into her forehead, blood smeared down her temple, into her ratty fake red hair. One hand lies on her motionless chest, fingers spread. The other is fisted upon her hip. A foot away lies a bottle, half its contents spilled on the linoleum. The sharp-sweet smell of whiskey clogs Melissa’s nose.
Whiskey—this early in the day?
A strangled cry dies on Melissa’s tongue. Her feet cement to the floor. She stares at her dead mother, disgust and anger and panic squeezing her lungs. Thoughts hit her so fast and hard she staggers beneath their blows. Her despicable mother is gone. Melissa is alone. What will she do now? Where will she go?
Melissa moans aloud and drops to her knees. This can’t be. She wants her mother. She never hated the woman, not really. “Come back,
In a skewed sort of way Hooded Man’s paranoia bound us together. We were both scared of what Baxter Jackson would do if he discovered my mission.
I sat down before my office computer. The clock read 9:18 p.m. Outside, the rain clawed my windows like some monster come to beg.
A shudder kicked across my shoulders.
It could be a late night, depending on how long it took until I exhausted my online tricks. This wasn’t exactly the time of day I could pick up the phone to verify information I unearthed. I’d need two things to get me through: Jelly Bellies and music.
In my bottom drawer, I consulted my Jelly Belly stash. All fifty flavors were there, each labeled in its own plastic zip bag. I pulled out Sizzling Cinnamon—my flavor for mad. Cappuccino for raw determination. Green Apple for sassiness. The last one was a lie, but I needed all the encouragement I could get. I ate two of those green babies, one after the other.
From my iTunes I selected my huge playlist of classic rock and clicked shuffle . Chicago flicked on—“Baby, What a Big Surprise.”
Apropos.
Pumped up and ready, I opened a new file, then hesitated in naming it. If the worst happened and Baxter somehow discovered what I was doing, I didn’t want Melissa’s information easily found on my computer.
My fingers typed in “HM” for Hooded Man.
The familiar thrill skidded down my spine. The hunt had begun.
SEVEN
JUNE 2004
Melissa stumbles up the hall from her tiny bedroom, arms against the thin walls for balance. The smelly trailer lists to one side, as if it’s about to fall over. Melissa’s feet slide and drag, the hallway never-ending. She’s heard a noise and needs to see what has happened. It’s something terrible. Now it’s so eerily quiet, not a peep from her mother. “Mom!” Melissa calls, but the only response is the echo of her own frightened voice. She tries to move faster, but her muscles feel like they’re weighted with lead.
The trailer stretches, stretches, until it’s as long as a football field. Chill bumps pop out on Melissa’s arms. Way at the end she can see the back of their ragged couch, the metal frame around the front door. Beyond the living area lies the tiny, crusted kitchen. No movement there. No stream of mumbled cussing. Where is her mother?
Cigarette smoke thickens the air. Melissa sucks the biting odor into her lungs with every panted breath. Fear and rage swirl in her head until she can’t tell one from the other.
The trailer shifts. Suddenly she’s in the living room. She focuses across the small area, over the stained carpet onto broken linoleum at the kitchen’s edge.
Sticking out from behind a cabinet is a bare, yellow-toenailed foot.
A squeak pushes up Melissa’s throat. She runs around the couch, cuts left toward the kitchen. She jumps past the cabinets—and sees the blood.
Her mother lies on the floor, face up, eyes open and glazed. A shocked expression wrenches her hardened face, as if she’s just stared into hell. A gash digs into her forehead, blood smeared down her temple, into her ratty fake red hair. One hand lies on her motionless chest, fingers spread. The other is fisted upon her hip. A foot away lies a bottle, half its contents spilled on the linoleum. The sharp-sweet smell of whiskey clogs Melissa’s nose.
Whiskey—this early in the day?
A strangled cry dies on Melissa’s tongue. Her feet cement to the floor. She stares at her dead mother, disgust and anger and panic squeezing her lungs. Thoughts hit her so fast and hard she staggers beneath their blows. Her despicable mother is gone. Melissa is alone. What will she do now? Where will she go?
Melissa moans aloud and drops to her knees. This can’t be. She wants her mother. She never hated the woman, not really. “Come back,
Similar Books
Assumed Identity
Julie Miller
The Journey Prize Stories 25
Various
The Scarred Man
Basil Heatter
Awakened
Lacey Roberts
Faith Defiled (Gray Spear Society Book 14)
Alex Siegel
Lakota Dawn
Janelle Taylor
The Tin Drum
Günter Grass
Take My Hand (Interracial Erotic Romance)
Sophia Banks
Bliss, Remembered
Frank Deford