Free What She Left Behind by Tracy Bilen Page A

it’s not like I’m going to be anyone special to Alex after tomorrow, except “that girl who skipped town with his copy of Misery .” If he calls me tomorrow, Keith Urban will be singing from the bottom of some river, maybe the Au Sable, because that’s where I’ll have to throw my phone so my dad can’t trace it.
    When I look up, Zach is taking a picture of me with his phone. Zach is always taking pictures.
    “Mark my words. Someday you’re going to have a picture in Time magazine alongside some prizewinning article that you’ve written.”
    “Yeah, right. Make that Country Time ,” he says.
    Zach hates that magazine. It’s a local one about life in the country.
    “Well at least they print gorgeous pictures,” I say.
    “I have a picture of Alex, too,” he says all innocent-like, “thatI took while you two were busy staring at each other. Want me to send it to you?”
    I shrug my shoulders like it doesn’t matter. “Sure, go ahead.”
    I bring up the picture on my phone and try not to stare. As usual, Zach snapped it at just the right moment. It captured both the smile on Alex’s face and the laughter in his eyes. Maybe I won’t be throwing my phone into the Au Sable River after all.
    “Thanks,” I say, putting my phone away.
    My mom still hasn’t arrived by the time school lets out, so Zach and I walk back to catch the bus.
    “Maybe we should go to the police,” says Zach.
    “Are you out of your mind? Jack?” I shiver. “He’s my dad’s best friend.”
    I wave to Zach from my seat in the bus and put in my earbuds. Then I open my backpack and look for the Stephen King book Alex loaned me.
    Instead I find the crumpled-up piece of paper from history class. I don’t need to open it to remember what I wrote.
    Don’t listen to your heart.
    Can’t trust Dad.
    Must not tell.
    I try to block out the fourth line from my mind. The line I didn’t write. The one I refuse to believe:
    Mom is dead.

CHAPTER 5
     
Wednesday
     
    T he bus drops me off at three thirty. That gives me almost two hours before my dad will be home. I unlock the front door.
    “Hello? Mom?”
    But there is no answer.
    I grab some Ritz Bits from the pantry and a carrot from the fridge. Then I go to see Chester, the neighbor’s horse. He’s waiting for me.
    “Sorry about yesterday, little fellow.” I rub the white diamond-shaped spot on his nose and hold the carrot out flat on my hand. “I’m not supposed to be here today either.” I love the echoing, snapping sound of the carrot as he crunches it. “I wish I could stay and chat,” I say, “but there’s someone I’ve got to find.” Chester tosses his head upward, sort of like a nod in reverse, then he takes off for the center of the pasture.
    He seems to be limping. My heart skips a beat.
    “You okay there, Chester?”
    He stands there, flicking his tail.
    It’s probably nothing. No doubt he’ll be fine by tomorrow.
    Back inside the house, I unload the dishwasher and wash everything. I even dry the dishes and put them away, so it’s done when Dad gets home. I keep a clean glass out for myself and press it against the lever for the refrigerator’s ice maker. Ice thunders into the glass. I fill my glass from the tap—the water button on the fridge is too slow and I don’t mind the taste of unfiltered well water. In fact, what I can’t stand is city water. The chlorine smell always makes me feel like I’m trapped in gym class at the indoor pool. I turn the stereo on full blast because the house is too quiet. Then I go into my parents’ bedroom.
    I set my water glass on the runner my mom keeps on her dresser. Everything is neat and precise, just like my dad likes it, except the lampshade on my mother’s nightstand is noticeably crooked. I shiver. Did Dad push Mom into the lamp? Did he hit her with it? I click the switch, but the light doesn’t go on. I unscrew the lightbulb and shake it. Burnt out. Should I change it? Better not. I screw it back in.
    Lifting up