The Other Child by Joanne Fluke Page A

move out of the way, but the cans were hurtling down, raining on their heads and arms, bruising them as they stared up in horror. The cans weren’t just falling; they were diving and plummeting, twirling and crashing to the floor as if some invisible hand was throwing them in gleeful spite.
    “Ladies? My God! Are you all right?”
    Everyone from the front of the store was there now, helping Mrs. Comstock and Mrs. Allen to their feet. There was an obstacle course of cans, Libby’s corn and peas and mixed vegetables scattered the length of the aisle.
    Leslie moved slowly, pushing her cart carefully to the front of the store. She felt a little dizzy and she leaned against the shopping cart, waiting patiently for the checker to come back to the register. All she wanted to do was go home. There was a commotion in the back of the store and Leslie turned, puzzled. She remotely remembered some cans falling; she remembered the crash. She supposed she could offer to help pick up the cans, but she was just too tired. The minute she got home she’d go up to the tower room and take a nice, long nap.

EIGHT
    The traffic was unusually heavy for a Wednesday afternoon and it was broiling hot, even with the windows open all the way. This last week in July was humid and the inside of the truck felt like a steam room. Mike gripped the steering wheel tightly and swore. He could feel the tension in his arms and shoulders, and his neck was stiff and aching. The drive in hadn’t been so bad, but the return trip was taking every bit of patience he had left. He barely controlled the urge to smash into the bumper of the rattling white station wagon poking along ahead of him on the two-lane road into town. Twenty miles of following a bad driver had put him in a vile mood.
    The house looked deserted. Mike parked at the end of the driveway and called out, but no one answered. He supposed that Karen was busy with her decorating, and Leslie was holed up in her tower room. It gave him an empty feeling to come home and find no one to meet him. Back in the city they used to greet him with happy smiles and hugs and they’d all tell each other about how they’d spent their day. But that hadn’t happened since they’d moved out here. Mike was beginning to think the move had been a mistake. Each of them had different interests now, and in this big house it was easy to go their separate ways.
    He let himself into the kitchen and gave a holler, but still there was no answer. The antique kitchen chair creaked as he sat down heavily. He lit a cigarette and stared out the window at the tall, straggling bushes in the yard. The rose garden was a mess and the hedge had grown wild. Things had to be pruned and clipped soon or the townspeople would start to talk. Originally he’d planned to hire a gardener, but they couldn’t afford it now, not with the money he’d dropped this week on the sportsbook. He had to make up for it next week for sure.
    The kitchen was silent and even the bright sun streaming in the west windows did nothing to lift Mike’s spirits. They hadn’t been happy with him at the magazine. Of course they’d accepted the condo prints; it was too close to deadline to do anything else. But he’d have to come up with something great for his next feature or he’d be in hot water. Even Rose Avery was upset with him and she had been his staunch supporter in the past. Without her help he never could have gotten the job as feature photographer.
    “Damn!” Mike growled as the cigarette burned down to scorch his fingers. Everything was going wrong lately and it was just too much to handle. He felt himself losing control. Small things were beginning to add up, and he wasn’t able to stop what was happening to all of them. Leslie didn’t have a single friend here in Cold Spring, Karen was so concerned with the restoration that she didn’t have time for anything else, and he was in trouble at the magazine. And on top of all that, he was losing on the