Free The Drowning Game by LS Hawker Page A

later.
    I shut the door of the truck and squatted down to hug the dogs, who licked my face and danced around me. They were overjoyed I was giving them affection, which I’d never done when Dad was alive. But these guys kept me safe. I went inside the house and let them in before dead-­bolting the door.
    I reached inside my bra and peeled the photo off my chest. My sweat had leeched some of the color off the print and my mom’s face was now imprinted on my skin, which gave me an inexplicable rush of gladness. Mom’s picture didn’t seem to be damaged. I stood staring at it, scouring the image for clues. Her ears were double-­pierced. There was a tiny scar on her left cheek. She wore a silver chain with a tiny square silver box around her neck. Staring at her, I was suddenly overcome with the feeling—­the certainty—­that my mother was still alive.
    I set the picture on the kitchen table to dry out.
    The only thing in life that mattered now was to get that box, the laptop, and the envelope from Dooley’s office and then get the hell out of Saw Pole.
    I DON'T REMEMBER when I realized I wasn’t supposed to ask Dad about Mom. I was pretty little though. We were in Kansas and I asked him if he knew the words to a song she used to sing called—­I think—­“Dig Down Deep.” He acted as if I’d said an obscene word or something. He was completely surprised and a little offended. It was like he’d forgotten all about her and figured I had too.
    â€œNo.”
    He said it in a tone that let me know I’d better not ask anymore, or I was going to get a paddling. I kind of wondered if maybe I’d made her up, if I’d imagined a beautiful, happy, laughing, smiling mother to balance out this stern, irritable, paranoid dad I was left with.
    Why had Dad hogged this picture of Mom all to himself? Why had he told me there were no photos of her, and why had he never told me how much I resembled her?
    I was restless, and I realized I hadn’t worked out at all since Dad had passed, other than the quick mile on the treadmill. Although he’d been a slave driver when it came to training, I was glad because being in good shape made me feel easier. Since I was little, he’d tell me he wanted me to be like Sarah Connor in Terminator II , “except without the crazy,” he’d say. Because you’ve got that part covered for both of us . I’d always thought it but never said it.
    I ran on the treadmill for an hour and then lifted weights while the dogs lay on the floor watching me. I did my best thinking during workouts, and I needed a plan. No one could help me. I had to do it myself, even if it meant what I did wasn’t exactly legal.
    I didn’t want to break the law, but the law sure wasn’t doing me any favors. I needed to see what was in that box and on that laptop and in the envelope, and the only way to do that was to go to Mr. Dooley’s office when he wasn’t in and take them. But how was I going to get there when I couldn’t drive? It was thirteen miles to Saw Pole. I had to find someone other than Randy to take me there.
    Sarx cocked an ear and jumped to his feet, followed quickly by Tesla. They both growled and then galloped up the stairs. I toweled off and followed them, on alert. They stood at the front door barking.
    I looked through the bars on our bulletproof windows, and there was Randy’s pickup truck sitting in the road, idling, with only the parking lights on.
    Randy stayed in front of the house for a little over an hour. I knew that most regular ­people would call the police, but those ­people didn’t have a father who told them endlessly that cops were never to be trusted. While Deirdre Walsh was my hero, she was just a character in a TV show. Real cops weren’t straight arrows like she was, according to my dad.
    Should I send the dogs out? Should I go out there to talk to Randy