Free Forgive Me, Alex by Lane Diamond Page A

face was any indication, Dad felt essentially the same about himself.
    Sleepy little Algonquin had been enjoying one of its usual slow nights, and the police immediately began their search. Weaver took it seriously enough and assured us that they'd look throughout the night. They would also notify the county sheriff and the police departments of the small neighboring towns. He offered lighthearted encouragement, however, confident that we'd hear from Alex or one of his friend's parents any minute.
    I had my doubts.
    That terrible premonition clawed at me again. A shadow was building in my mind, and it would become a raging storm if I let it. I walked outside and sat in a lawn chair to escape the madness inside the house.
    Nobody thought anything terrible could happen in Algonquin, but I knew Alex, Mr. Ten-going-on-Eighteen. He'd never leave the house with the TV on, the doors wide open and pizza on the way, let alone with his precious baseball cards in a mess. Not without leaving a note or making a point to call.
    Emptiness and loss assaulted me. I'd known that feeling once before: I'd been thirteen and Mom's blood had dripped from my hands.
    I was desperate to chase away the feeling, but it nagged me like the bugs I swatted absent-mindedly on the humid night. I rested my chin on my chest and stared unseeing at the ground. I had let Alex down. I should have protected him. I should have been out searching for him, but where should I look? What could I do?
    After two hours of futile attempts, Diana got through on our phone. I cut her off in mid-yell and explained the events of the evening, the reason she got all those busy signals, the reason I forgot about her. She caught her breath, apologized and offered to help. What could she do?
    Exactly what I did: nothing. I said I'd call her the next day.
    Yes, that next day.
    ***
    Return to June 7, 1995
    Last night's dreams, the memories of seventeen years ago, are too persistent.
    Earlier in the evening, I said goodbye to Linda at the bar, but first I agreed to meet her for breakfast today. She didn't invite me to her hotel room, nor did she ask to accompany me home, nor did I breach the subject in any way. There was an underlying tension, a thought that we might rekindle the flame from three years ago. I sure felt it, and I believe she did too, but in the end, we said goodnight and went our separate ways.
    Until now.
    I've anticipated this meeting from the instant she offered to buy me breakfast, yet as I drive to her hotel, the lingering effects of last night's dreams distract me. I attempt to drown them out in a blast of music from a cassette, an upbeat, kick-ass mixed tape designed to improve my mood and get me going on days like this.
    Robin Zander of Cheap Trick screams that he's All Wound Up . I could use a little of that myself.
    Linda said last night that she wanted to talk about Mitchell Norton.
    What's to talk about? I want to return to the job I started seventeen years ago and failed to finish.
    I want to slit his goddamned throat.

Chapter 16 – June 7, 1995: Tony Hooper
     
    "I do not believe in a fate that falls on men however they act, but I do believe in a fate that falls on them unless they act." – G.K. Chesterton
    ~~~~~
    The eggs are so runny on the plate that I consider using a spoon to scoop them up, but the bacon is properly crisp and the pancakes perfect. Linda has no objections about her breakfast. Then again, how does one make a mess of half a grapefruit and one slice of dry wheat toast? You call that breakfast? She's probably trying to watch her figure.
    I'm doing plenty of that myself—watching her figure. She's dressed casually in jeans and an orange blouse that hangs loose at her waist, and her hair is down and flows freely every time she moves her head, which she does often.
    Is she doing that on purpose, to make her hair bounce so enticingly? Speaking of bounce, is she...? Whoa, she's not wearing a bra. I gulp down my unwelcome anticipation. Good