behind my eyes, answering, “I wish she were here too,” and adding quickly, “but you’re doing a great job, Dad. And Jan will be glad to see you.”
He carries his coffee cup and empty cereal bowl to the sink. “Not tonight, I’m afraid. I almost forgot to tell you. I’ll get a hamburger for dinner because we’ve got to go over some reports that came in from one of the branches. It’s going to mean that I’ll be there later than usual, maybe until eleven or even midnight.”
“I may get home before you do,” I tell him.
He bends down to kiss my forehead. “Have a good time at the party, Stacy.”
“Thanks,” I answer, wishing I didn’t have to go.
In the afternoon a delivery truck comes with an exercise bicycle.
The moment the deliveryman leaves the telephone rings. “Is everything all right, Stacy?” It’s Mrs. Cooper’s voice.
“Yes. Everything’s fine.”
“Well, you know how it is in a neighborhood—everyone checking on everyone else, and I saw a delivery truck, so I thought—” She interrupts herself to tell me about some friends who had a delivery truck parked in their driveway, and none of their neighbors thoughta thing about it, except it really wasn’t a delivery truck, and most of their furniture was stolen.
“This one was a real delivery truck, and it brought my exercise bicycle,” I tell her.
“I guess I’m just being too careful,” she says. “But one thing and another, like that excitement last night and that same car that seems to be cruising this street, although my husband says I’m just looking for trouble, and—”
“What car?” I have to interrupt.
“I don’t know,” she says. “Just a car. Next time I see it I’m going to write down the license number.”
“How often have you seen the car?”
“Oh, three or four times.”
“What kind of car is it?”
“Goodness, I have no idea.”
“What color is it?”
“Plain. You know.”
“Brown? Blue?”
“Yes. Something like that. Nothing special.”
There’s no point in asking her any more questions. Besides, the car she saw is probably no more a threat than the delivery truck that brought my bicycle.
“One more thing.” Mrs. Cooper continues by telling me she’s sorry she forgot to tell me about the girls’ bedtime, and she’s sorry we all got so excited. She forgot to tell me that Teri has an overactive imagination, and she apologizes for forgetting to pay me for babysitting. If I come over tonight or tomorrow, she’ll have the money for me. By the time we end our conversation I feel like gasping for breath.
I climb on the bicycle and follow all of Mrs.Montez’s instructions, working up a real sweat. Next comes a steamy, hot shower. I feel good, really good.
As I turn off the shower I hear the telephone ringing. Wrapping the towel around myself, I run to answer it. How long has it been ringing? Whoever is calling must know that I’m home. Maybe it’s Donna or Dad.
“Hi,” I gasp into the receiver.
A whispering voice hisses, “What do you remember, Stacy?”
“Who are you?” The whisper is weird, but I’m too shocked to be frightened.
“It’s been a long time,” the voice says. “Why don’t you just forget? It would be safer for you to forget.”
I hear my own voice as though I’d stepped outside my body and were looking and listening to someone else. I expect to be afraid, but I’m not. It’s as though I were made of glass, with a red, churning anger bubbling up inside me. Words drop like chunks of molten glass as I ask, “Are you the one who killed my mother?”
The whisperer doesn’t answer for a while, so I ask again, “Are you?”
The voice over the telephone is softer now. “I heard that you don’t remember my face.”
“But I will,” I say.
“Then I’ll have to do something about it.”
“Not if I find you first.”
There’s a pause, then a chuckle. It sounds almost as though he were talking to himself. This guy is weird. I can’t make
He carries his coffee cup and empty cereal bowl to the sink. “Not tonight, I’m afraid. I almost forgot to tell you. I’ll get a hamburger for dinner because we’ve got to go over some reports that came in from one of the branches. It’s going to mean that I’ll be there later than usual, maybe until eleven or even midnight.”
“I may get home before you do,” I tell him.
He bends down to kiss my forehead. “Have a good time at the party, Stacy.”
“Thanks,” I answer, wishing I didn’t have to go.
In the afternoon a delivery truck comes with an exercise bicycle.
The moment the deliveryman leaves the telephone rings. “Is everything all right, Stacy?” It’s Mrs. Cooper’s voice.
“Yes. Everything’s fine.”
“Well, you know how it is in a neighborhood—everyone checking on everyone else, and I saw a delivery truck, so I thought—” She interrupts herself to tell me about some friends who had a delivery truck parked in their driveway, and none of their neighbors thoughta thing about it, except it really wasn’t a delivery truck, and most of their furniture was stolen.
“This one was a real delivery truck, and it brought my exercise bicycle,” I tell her.
“I guess I’m just being too careful,” she says. “But one thing and another, like that excitement last night and that same car that seems to be cruising this street, although my husband says I’m just looking for trouble, and—”
“What car?” I have to interrupt.
“I don’t know,” she says. “Just a car. Next time I see it I’m going to write down the license number.”
“How often have you seen the car?”
“Oh, three or four times.”
“What kind of car is it?”
“Goodness, I have no idea.”
“What color is it?”
“Plain. You know.”
“Brown? Blue?”
“Yes. Something like that. Nothing special.”
There’s no point in asking her any more questions. Besides, the car she saw is probably no more a threat than the delivery truck that brought my bicycle.
“One more thing.” Mrs. Cooper continues by telling me she’s sorry she forgot to tell me about the girls’ bedtime, and she’s sorry we all got so excited. She forgot to tell me that Teri has an overactive imagination, and she apologizes for forgetting to pay me for babysitting. If I come over tonight or tomorrow, she’ll have the money for me. By the time we end our conversation I feel like gasping for breath.
I climb on the bicycle and follow all of Mrs.Montez’s instructions, working up a real sweat. Next comes a steamy, hot shower. I feel good, really good.
As I turn off the shower I hear the telephone ringing. Wrapping the towel around myself, I run to answer it. How long has it been ringing? Whoever is calling must know that I’m home. Maybe it’s Donna or Dad.
“Hi,” I gasp into the receiver.
A whispering voice hisses, “What do you remember, Stacy?”
“Who are you?” The whisper is weird, but I’m too shocked to be frightened.
“It’s been a long time,” the voice says. “Why don’t you just forget? It would be safer for you to forget.”
I hear my own voice as though I’d stepped outside my body and were looking and listening to someone else. I expect to be afraid, but I’m not. It’s as though I were made of glass, with a red, churning anger bubbling up inside me. Words drop like chunks of molten glass as I ask, “Are you the one who killed my mother?”
The whisperer doesn’t answer for a while, so I ask again, “Are you?”
The voice over the telephone is softer now. “I heard that you don’t remember my face.”
“But I will,” I say.
“Then I’ll have to do something about it.”
“Not if I find you first.”
There’s a pause, then a chuckle. It sounds almost as though he were talking to himself. This guy is weird. I can’t make
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