The Deadly Neighbors (The Zoe Hayes Mysteries) Read Online Free PDF Page A

prescribed an ice bag for my emerging lumps, told me I had a mild concussion and should rest, and had me sign a paper. We were released. Free to go.
    Amazingly, the outside world remained unchanged. When we stepped outside, bright daylight still gleamed, as if not eons, but only a couple of hours had passed. The warm city air welcomed us, embracing us with soot and car exhaust, replacing the sterile chill of the hospital. Officer Hollister left in a police cruiser and I drove us to our town house in Queen Village, and for the rest of the day, for Molly’s sake, I tried to be cheerful, to act normal, fix lunch and follow our routine. But I couldn’t, not even almost. A dull pain rolled inside my skull, separating me from those around me, preventing me from thinking clearly. When the phone rang I didn’t want to answer, couldn’t bear to make conversation.
    “Mom, the phone,” Molly announced, as if I couldn’t hear it. “I’ll get it—”
    “No, Molls. Don’t. Let the voice mail pick up.”
    “But maybe it’s important. It could be Grandpa—” She looked around the kitchen, ran into the hall. “Where is it?”
    The fact was I had no idea. The cordless was always disappearing, traveling on its own. It could be anywhere, and I was grateful when it stopped ringing before Molly could locate it. The bump on my head throbbed, and every muscle in my body ached. Thoughts of Nick, of my father, of Beatrice, of shadows I couldn’t identify and questions I couldn’t articulate rattled around my head. I fought them off, keeping busy. While Molly soaked in the bathtub, I threw our clot-covered clothes into the trash bin, wanting never to see them again. I took a long shower, scrubbing away basement grime and crusted blood. It was after eight when, feeling faint and vaguely nauseous, I remembered we hadn’t eaten dinner.
    “Mollybear, want a hot dog?” I hoped so. It was about all I had the energy to cook.
    Molly wasn’t thinking about food, though. She’d spotted the clothes toppling out of the trash can. “Mom, are those my clothes?” She looked mortified.
    I nodded. “Mine, too.”
    “You threw out our clothes? Why? Mom, why?” She repeated the question, trying to make sense of the inexplicable.
    “They have stains, Molls.”
    “So? We can wash them.” She stood at the trashcan, staring.
    “Some stains don’t wash out.”
    “But you didn’t even try.” She reached into the can, removing a bloody yellow sneaker.
    “I didn’t have to try. I know those stains won’t wash out.”
    “Why won’t they wash out? We can use stain remover.”
    Why did she have to know so much? “It’s blood. A little blood might come out. But not that much.”
    She was digging deep into the trash, anyway, retrieving what she could. “But my sneakers—my yellow sneakers.”
    “Molls, they’re ruined. I’ll get you another pair.”
    “I don’t want another pair. I want these.” She held them up. The sneakers were caked with dark brown splotches.
    “The new ones will be just as good.”
    “No, they won’t. These are my favorites.”
    I stood beside her, taking the grisly items from her hands and dropping them back into the can. “Molly, please. Leave them there.”
    As fast as I replaced things, she pulled them out again. “No— it’s my stuff. You can’t just throw it out.” She was indignant, her arms filled with bloodied clothes.
    She was right. The clothes were hers. I stopped grabbing and let her hold a sneaker and a blood-smeared T-shirt. Slowly, she looked them over.
    “Mom.” She looked up at me, her large eyes welling with disappointment. “My sneakers are ruined.”
    I sighed, stooping to face her. “I know. Sometimes stuff gets ruined, Molls. If you can’t fix it, you just have to let it go.”
    Her eyes widened, accepting the awful truth. Then, somberly, slowly, she dropped her clothes one item at a time back into the trash. “Good-bye, yellow sneakers. Good-bye Dora T-shirt. Goodbye daisy