Free When the Bough Breaks by Jonathan Kellerman

leaned out of the window and looked at me wearily.
    “Thanks, Alex. I’m going to go home and crash. This no-sleep routine is catching up with me …”
    “You want to take a nap here and then head out?”
    “No thanks. I’ll make it if this pile of junk will.” He slapped the dented door. “Thanks anyway.”
    “I’ll follow up with Melody.”
    “Great. I’ll call you tomorrow.” He drove a way until I stopped him with my shout. He backed up.
    “What?”
    “It’s probably not important, but I thought I’d mention it. The nurse in Towle’s office told me Melody’s dad’s in prison.”
    He nodded somnambulantly.
    “So’s half the county. It’s that way when the economy goes bad. Thanks.”
    Then he was off.
    It was six-fifteen and already dark. I lay down on my bed for a few minutes and when I awoke it was after nine. I got up, washed my face, and called Robin. No one answered.
    I took a quick shave, threw on a windbreaker and drove down to Hakata, in Santa Monica. I drank sake and ate sushi for an hour, and bantered with the chef, who, as it turned out had a master’s degree in psychology from the University of Tokyo.
    I got home, stripped naked, and took a hot bath, trying to erase all thoughts of Morton Handler, Melody Quinn and L.W. Towle, M.D., from my mind. I used self-hypnosis, imagining Robin and myself making love on top of a mountain in the middle of a rain forest. Flushed with passion I got out of the tub and called her again. After ten rings, she answered, mumbling and confused and half-asleep.
    I apologized for waking her, told her I loved her and hung up.
    Half a minute later she called back.
    “Was that you, Alex?” She sounded as if she was dreaming.
    “Yes, hon. I’m sorry to wake you.”
    “No, that’s okay—what time is it?”
    “Eleven-thirty.”
    “Oh, I must have conked out. How are you, sweetie?”
    “Fine. I called you around nine.”
    “I was out all day buying wood. There’s an old violinmaker out in Simi Valley who’s retiring. I spent six hours choosing tools and picking out maple and ebony. I’m sorry I missed you.”
    She sounded exhausted.
    “I’m sorry too, but go back to bed. Get some sleep and I’ll call you tomorrow.”
    “If you want to come over, you can.”
    I thought about it. But I was too restless to be good company.
    “No, doll. You rest. How about dinner tomorrow? You pick the place.”
    “Okay, darling.” She yawned—a soft, sweet sound. “I love you.”
    “Love you too.”
    It took me a while to fall asleep and when I finally did, it was restless slumber, punctuated by black-and-white dreams with lots of frantic movement in them. I don’t remember what they were about, but the dialogue was sluggish and labored, as if everyone were talking with paralyzed lips and mouths filled with wet sand.
    In the middle of the night I got up to check that the doors and windows were locked.

6
    I WOKE UP at six the next morning, filled with random energy. I hadn’t felt that way for over five months. The tension wasn’t all bad, for with it came a sense of purpose, but by seven it had built up some, so that I paced around the house like a jaguar on the prowl.
    At seven-thirty I decided it was late enough. I dialed Bonita Quinn’s number. She was wide-awake and she sounded as if she’d been expecting my call.
    “Morning, Doctor.”
    “Good morning. I thought I’d drop by and spend a few hours with Melody.”
    “Why not? She’s not doin’ anything. You know—” she lowered her voice—“I think she liked you. She talked about how you played with her.”
    “That’s good. We’ll do some more today. I’ll be there in half an hour.”
    When I arrived she was all dressed and ready to go. Her mother had put her in a pale yellow sundress that exposed bony white shoulders and pipe-stem arms. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, fastened by a yellow ribbon. She clutched a tiny patent-leather purse. I had thought we’d spend some time in her room