Silent Alarm Read Online Free PDF

she moves aside to let them in. They step inside the foyer, looking around uncomfortably. I watch as they take in the family photos lining the walls of the staircase: me at my first violin concert when I was seven, the framed drawings Luke and I both made over the years, scribbles of bright crayon and smeared paint. My mother has always been more than eager to foster our artistic potential with drawing classes after school, tie-dye workshops, modeling clay—anything she thought might spark our “creative sides,” as she likes to call it. Too bad for her that she wound up with kids who could barely color inside the lines, much less take the Guggenheim by storm.
    We file into the living room, which is the one room in our house we barely ever use, except for “family” holidays like Christmas or Thanksgiving. All the tables and chairs have tiny matchstick legs that look like they will splinter if you so much as lean on them. My mother refers to it sarcastically as her “grown-up room,” which Luke always thought was pretty hilarious. “You
are
a grown-up,” he’d scoff, rolling his eyes. “You don’t need a stupid room to prove it.”
    I sit down on the love seat, and the detectives sit across from me on the long couch, unzipping their Windbreakers, leaning back against the pillows. The taller one, who’s done most of the talking so far, takes out a pad and a pen. “I’m Detective Marino,” he says, then points at the guy sitting beside him. “And this is Detective Rogers.” Detective Rogers has white-blond hair that’s balding slightly on top, and a roll of fat that hangs over his belt, straining at the buttons of his white dress shirt. He’s incredibly pale, and when he removes his sunglasses, his eyelashes are so light, they are practically nonexistent.
    My mother hovers in the doorway, arms folded across her chest. I can feel the nervousness, the tension coming off of her in waves. Just as she makes her way over to the love seat to sit beside me, Marino holds up one hand. “Mrs. Aronson, we’d really like to speak to Alys privately, if you don’t mind.” He mispronounces my name once again.
    â€œIt’s A-lise,” I say, unable to let it go, putting the stress firmly on the second syllable as the words leave my lips.
    â€œSorry,” Marino says, his cheeks reddening noticeably. He clears his throat once, a half cough behind a closed fist, and averts his eyes from my face. “We won’t keep . . . her . . . long.” He pauses, deciding whether to attempt my name once again. “We just have a few quick questions.”
    My mother opens her mouth as if to say something, to protest, then presses her lips together so tight that her mouth resembles a straight line. It hurts me to see her like this: someone I have never known to give up a fight easily, reduced to wordlessness and sorrow. I hear my father moving around upstairs, the creak of the floorboards in their bedroom, then the sound of water gushing through the pipes in the walls. My mother glances quickly upward, her expression tense and worried, and nods her head at the detectives.
    â€œIf you need me, I’ll be right upstairs, Alys.” She points at the ceiling above her, as if I don’t know where her bedroom is and need to be reminded. With that, she shuffles out of the room and walks upstairs, the wooden stairs shifting and groaning beneath her weight.
    â€œAlys,” Detective Marino begins, his blue eyes bloodshot but kind, “we won’t keep you long. We just have a few questions about Luke.”
    My brother’s name in his mouth sounds obscene.
    â€œWhat can you tell us about Luke’s demeanor in the days before the . . . incident?”
    (shooting)
    I look at my feet, how white they look against the pink-and-beige rug, like two fish pulled from the icy depths of the sea, gasping on