The Dead of Summer by Heather Balog

toward the house. We slowly traveled to the backyard, seamlessly walking in tandem, ignoring Lindy’s little cries of “Ooh” and “Ouch” and protests that we were being too rough. When we reached the yard, Carson halted and glanced around as if looking for something.
    “What are you looking for?” Lindy asked.
    “Is there some place that we can put her down?” he asked, directing the question toward me.
    “There’s a lounge chair over there on the terrace,” I told him, with a jerk of my head.
    “Put me down?” Lindy squeaked desperately. “Why are you going to put me down?”
    “Well, you didn’t think we were going to carry you like this to the hospital did you?” Carson asked as he shuffled backward toward the deck. “As fun as this adventure has been, my back is cramping up.”
    Lindy sulked as we lowered her to the chaise lounge. “Well what now?” she inquired in a baby voice. I had a feeling she would have liked it if we had carried her all the way to the hospital like that. I could just imagine her pouty face as she waved glumly to everyone we passed throughout the neighborhood.
    “Oh, Lindy what happened?” Mrs. Forester would gush as she tended to her begonias.
    Lindy would fan herself and sob while Mrs. Benson rushed over with a refreshing pitcher of lemonade—
    “Kennedy!”
    Carson’s sharp voice roused me from my daydream.
    “Huh? What? Did you say something?” I asked sheepishly.
    He kind of scowled. “Yeah I asked if you knew Lindy’s mama’s number. Do you?”
    I stared at him for a second and then down at Lindy. “Don’t you know your mama’s number?”
    She smiled coyly and replied, “It’s in my phone and my phone is in my room. And I just can’t remember the number right now. It must be from the trauma.” She waved her hand toward her leg and shot me a cunning smile.
    I glanced at Carson. His face told me he didn’t buy her story either.
    I dug in my pocket for my own phone, but of course, I didn’t have Mrs. Lincoln’s number. I turned to Carson and placed my own hand lightly on his arm.
    “Could you go see if Maria is in the house? She would have Mrs. Lincoln’s number.”
    “No!” Lindy yelped. We both turned our heads to stare at her and she quickly said, “Why don’t you go, Kennedy? She knows you. Why, if she saw a strange boy in the house she’d be liable to shoot at Carson, now wouldn’t she?”
    I pursed my lips together and swallowed my angry response. Maria would be no more likely to shoot an intruder than I would. Hell, the worst she’d do would be to throw a shoe at him and then crawl into a cabinet or something. As far as I knew, she didn’t even know how to shoot a gun. I now knew what game Lindy was playing. It was, “get Kennedy to leave so Lindy can be alone with the boy.” I hated that game.
    “Well, I can just go and get your phone then,” I told her, challenging her with my eyes.
    Lindy’s eyes narrowed into slits. I knew her phone was in her back pocket. She didn’t even go to pee without it.
    “I want Maria ,” she hissed.
    “Fine,” I mumbled through clenched teeth as I stomped off on the cobbled walkway that led to the house. The walkway was uneven on purpose (Mr. Lincoln claimed it gave it “old world charm”, whatever the hell that was) and I had to be careful as I walked so I didn’t trip. My luck, I’d break my nose—my only saving grace of my features. I climbed the steps to the deck and eventually reached the back door. As I put my hand on the knob, I could hear a high-pitched giggle coming from the general direction of the lounge chair.
    “Damn her,” I muttered under my breath as I stepped into the cooled and seemingly empty mansion. “Maria!” I called out as I wandered into the kitchen, where I would normally find the housekeeper. The kitchen was empty except for a rack of cupcakes waiting to be iced. Probably for Mrs. Lincoln’s garden club or something. I stuck my arm out to grab one but then I