Silent Alarm Read Online Free PDF Page A

course, now after what Luke has done, people will say,
Oh, the Aronsons. I always thought they were weird.
But we weren’t. We were just like you. Except we weren’t. But we didn’t know it yet.
    But you knew it, Luke, didn’t you?
    Didn’t you.

TWO
    Just as I’m about to walk upstairs and get dressed, the doorbell rings, making me jump. A clanging of bells reverberates through the house announcing the arrival of who? What now?
    What fresh hell is this?
    If I were in English class right now, Mrs. Miller would be boring me to death with Shakespeare and Eudora Welty, and I’d most likely be staring into space, stomach rumbling like a garbage truck, thinking about what culinary atrocity lay in wait for me in the cafeteria. Not standing at the foot of the stairs afraid to move, to answer the door, terrified at what might be on the other side.
    My mother brushes past me, placing her hands on my waist and moving me out of the way as if I am suddenly small again, underfoot. The smell of coffee, the salty scent of her unwashed skin mixed with day-old perfume envelop me, and I want to throw myself into her arms and sleep, hiding beneath the soft folds of her robe. She looks out the peephole and a long sigh escapes her lips. “It’s the police,” she says, her voice wooden. “Again.”
    The detectives were here yesterday after my father picked me up from school, but I went up to my room and straight into the bathroom, their suits and blue uniforms a shapeless blur, their voices a horde of insects, my mother’s shrieks rising above them all as I lay on the floor, moaning tunelessly. Later, wrapping her arms around me, her grip tight as she rocked me back and forth against the white tiles, her hot tears soaking the back of my neck, my tangled hair, my mouth stretched into a distorted scream. “Play the Brahms,” I yelled out at some point, inconsolable. “Play the Brahms.” But even the sweet, low sound coursing through the speakers in my room, the soaring soprano of that single, mournful violin, did nothing to ease the fire in my chest or take away the pain.
    Help me.
    When my mother opens the door, two men stand there wearing blue Windbreakers, sunglasses covering their eyes just like in the movies. Just beyond the front porch, I see the TV vans; the reporters clustered at the end of the driveway, talking into cell phones, pacing back and forth, holding up their cameras before the front door closes again, hoping for a glimpse. The taller of the two officers removes his sunglasses, and his watery blue eyes take in my mother’s robe, my messy hair, the fact that sleep last night was little more than wishful thinking as I lay there for hours, terrified to close my eyes and relive it all: that seasick, earthquake feeling as kids stampeded though the library, the tremor of running feet, the room vibrating with a peculiar mix of terror and tears.
    â€œMrs. Aronson, I’m so sorry to bother you at this difficult time,” he says, sounding apologetic enough. “But we have some questions for Alys, if you don’t mind. It will only take a few minutes.”
    He pronounces my name Alice, not A-lise, the way it’s meant to be said, and for the millionth time I wonder why my parents gave Luke such a simple name—easy to say, easy to spell—but decided to bestow upon me one that pretty much guarantees that I’ll be correcting people in a mild but constant state of irritation for my entire life.
    â€œRight now?” My mother puts her hands on her hips, ready for an argument, her face veiled in annoyance. When my mother doesn’t like someone—for whatever reason—they know it instantly.
    â€œWe wouldn’t bother you if it weren’t absolutely necessary.” His voice is quiet and grave, and my mother hesitates for a moment. I can see the emotions shifting over her face—sadness, regret, reluctance, acceptance—before