Free Look For Me By Moonlight by Mary Downing Hahn

obscured the lonely figure. I turned away, afraid the snowman might be nearer when the wind dropped.

9
    Several days passed, each like the one before. In the mornings I studied—or tried to—while Dad worked on his novel and Susan sewed. After lunch, it was back to the books for a couple of hours. In the late afternoon, I took care of Todd while Susan napped and Dad wrote. At six, we ate dinner. At seven, Todd went to bed. At eight, Vincent joined us for a glass of wine and an hour or so of conversation.
    Every night I hoped Todd would wake from a bad dream and yell for Dad and Susan, but he slept soundly, depriving me of a chance to be alone with Vincent. I had to content myself with being in the same room with him. From my perch on the couch, I listened to every word he said and stole looks at him as often as I dared. Sometimes he caught me watching him; sometimes I caught him watching me.
    Although I rarely had anything to say, Vincent made an effort to draw me into the conversation. Unlike Dad, he took my opinions seriously. He listened to me. He never laughed or teased me. If I made a mistake, he defended me, even when my error was as irrefutable as a misquoted poem or a blunder in grammar. He had a clever way of making Dad sound like a pedant when he corrected me.
    Vincent also noticed how often Susan asked me to do things for her. Fetch this, fetch that, make tea, clean up the dishes, put another log on the fire, let the cat in, let the cat out, answer the phone. When I returned from one of these chores, he’d catch my eye and smile sympathetically.
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    One afternoon I took a walk to escape Todd’s endless requests to build block towers, play Candyland, help him with puzzles, read to him, and so on. Sometimes I enjoyed entertaining my brother, but he was so demanding. One game was never enough, neither was one book or one puzzle. More, more, more—it was exhausting.
    From the top of the cliff, I looked down uneasily, half expecting to see the dead girl’s body awash in the surf. But the ocean was empty Waves rolled toward shore, their sleek, green backs streaked with seaweed. A gust of wind ran its cold fingers through my hair and I turned away. It was a sad and lonely place, made more so by Mrs. Bigelow’s story.
    I walked cautiously down the path to the beach. Soothed by the rumble of the surf and the cries of gulls, I hiked along the shore for miles, enjoying the solitude and the freedom to think my own thoughts—mainly about Vincent.
    By the time I turned back, the sun had set, leaving a gash of red in the western sky. On the horizon, the sea merged with the dark clouds. The foam on the breaking waves glowed pink in the dull light.
    Just ahead, a barely discernible figure emerged from the mist. I was alone. Night was falling fast. The moon was already visible, small and shrouded, giving little light. The murdered girl came to mind again, and I was afraid. I shouldn’t have walked so far, shouldn’t have stopped so often to pick up shells and stones, should have remembered how short winter days are and how soon it gets dark.
    â€œCynda, is that you?”
    â€œVincent!” Weak-kneed with relief, I hurried toward him.
    â€œWhat are you doing out here all by yourself?” he asked. “It’s almost dark, you should be home. Susan is looking for you.”
    â€œShe probably wants me to set the table,” I grumbled, “or keep Todd out of her hair.”
    Vincent agreed. “She demands a great deal from you.”
    I looked at him gratefully. Most adults would have taken up for Susan. “She’s pregnant,” they would have said. “She has a right to expect help.” But Vincent saw things from my point of view. Susan was taking advantage of me.
    We walked along in silence. The waves washed in and out, sucking at the sand. In the distance, well back from the cliffs, I could just make out the inn’s candles.
    â€œDo you ever