Free Animosity by James Newman Page B

disbelief.
    What the hell was going on around here?
    “Where there’s smoke, there’s usually fire,” said Ned Pastorek. “That’s all I’m saying.”
    I did not want to hear any more. With trembling hands, I closed the door. Locked it.
    I felt so confused. Alone.
    And more than a little afraid.

CHAPTER TWELVE
     
    Wednesday afternoon. Six days had passed since Rebecca Lanning’s murder.
    I would never forget what I had seen. I knew the sight of that little girl lying there in the dirt, like so much garbage, would haunt me for the rest of my life.
    Then there was the matter of my neighbors …
    But I would worry about that later, I decided. Today I felt alive, reinvigorated. My daughter had come to visit, and in Samantha’s company my troubles of the last weeks seemed like nothing worse than foggy memories. Worries from another time, another place.
    At least for a little while.
    “Tag, Norman… you’re It!” The eleven-year-old giggled as Norman chased her around the backyard and a cool summer breeze engulfed us all. “Look, Dad! Daddy, look! Ha-ha-haaa!”
    I turned, watched her fall beneath the golden retriever, and I laughed so hard I nearly doubled over beneath the sharp pains shooting through my ribs. Sam’s long blond hair was tangled and frizzy, her pink T-shirt and white shorts blotchy all over with grass stains from an afternoon of rolling around in the yard with Norman. Karen would undoubtedly read me the riot act for allowing our daughter to ruin her brand new outfit. She had warned me when I picked Sam up that these clothes were for the upcoming school year, so I should make sure she didn’t get a speck of dirt on them. But I hardly cared about the consequences. I would buy some Sam more, gladly. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt so complete. Hearing Norman’s gentle chuffs, the constant jingle of his dog collar, and Samantha’s carefree laughter echoing about my property as I sweated over our dinner of hotdogs and hamburgers on the grill, I could almost imagine everything was okay in my world. I could believe that things were back to normal, and we were a family again. I expected Karen to appear through the back door at any moment, balancing a tray of condiments in one hand, bowls of baked beans and potato salad in the other. I envisioned her wearing that T-shirt with the cover art to my novel Devil Woman silk-screened on the front—the very cover for which she had modeled not long after our fifth anniversary—and those tight black jeans with the sexy little hole in the left ass-cheek. As soon as her hands were free, I fantasized, she would obey the command upon my apron; she would KISS THE COOK, slowly and deeply and passionately, until Sam demanded, “Stop that, you guys! Ewww!”
    I remembered what it was like. Before. When everything was perfect and in its rightful place.
    And then I quickly banished such thoughts from my brain, lest I ruin my wonderful mood. Samantha was here, she was having the time of her life, and I wanted to cherish every second we spent together before I drove her back to her mother’s place later that evening.
    “Get her, Norman! Get her!” I laughed, high and loud.
    Overhead, a distant jet carved a long white streak in the sky. A big rig’s air brakes farted and hissed across town. Next door, I could hear Ben Souther watching a Braves game on TV: the sharp crack of a triple-bagger at least, the fervent roar of the crowd, and occasional off- color commentary from my neighbor (“Go, you son of a bitch, go! Oh, that’s pathetic! I’m sixty-three years old and I could play better ball in my sleep!”).
    Humming an old Led Zeppelin tune to myself, I wiped a slick sheen of sweat from my brow. I tossed my spatula in the air, caught it. Did it again behind my back, with masterful skill. Unfortunately, no one was watching.
    I turned down the gas on the grill then, and flipped the burgers one last time.
    A few minutes later I called to Sam over my shoulder,