the house, every corner of Grampa’s life. Every corner of my life too.
And my story, that simple story of a girl trying to get into music school, my story feels like it’s been swallowed up whole, the way an owl eats a mouse.
Then it’s like this huge gust of wind pushes through my mind and all the fog is gone. Everything snaps sharp and clear.
It’s my voice again, closer now. “You have to leave, Robert. Right now. Before I call the police. You need to get back to your hotel. You were never here. This is a mess. A huge mess. And it’s got nothing to do with you. Unless you stay. So you’ve got to go. Right now, okay? And I’ll go around and wipe off all your fingerprints. No one will know you were here. So go, okay?”
“I can’t do that.”
The look on Robert’s face. Very sweet. And protective.
I say, “But you have to go. This is going to ruin everything for me, but it’s not your problem. It’s my grampa, and it’s my problem. So go. But first help me go through the house and clean up.”
He shakes his head. “I really can’t leave—I mean, think about it. I’m a witness here. Because you’re a suspect too. I can’t leave. They’d find out I was here anyway. Think how many people on this block have seen me go in and out with you. And if you wiped my fingerprints off the freezer, you might wipe away something the police will need. We have to tell them everything, tell it exactly the way it happened. Even the part about me faking the voice to your uncle Hank. I might get in some trouble for that, but if I walk away, that’s a real crime. This is serious. And I’m probably a suspect too.”
I’m hearing what Robert is saying, but I’m stuck back near the beginning. That one thing he said: Because you’re a suspect too.
Me, a suspect. In the mysterious death of my own grandfather. A suspect.
So I go into the study, and I pick up the phone. But then I hang up.
Robert’s watching me. “What’re you doing?”
I don’t want to explain myself. I pull my cell phone from the pocket of my jeans, and I punch the menu button until I find the call log, and then I scroll until I see a number I don’t recognize. I push Dial, and after five rings it goes to voice mail: “This is Kenneth Grant. Please leave a message.”
After the beep I say, “Mr. Grant? This is Gwendolyn Page, Lawrence Page’s granddaughter. I just found my grampa. He’s . . . dead. He’s in the freezer, here at his house. In the utility room. And I have to call 911. And I wanted to ask you what else I should do. Because you said I should call if I needed any help. And I . . . I need help.”
Then I push the End button, because that’s all there is to say.
Robert’s nodding. “That was a good idea.”
I sit in the big desk chair. It’s so still, so quiet in this house. I love that silence. I wish it could stay like this, so calm. I need to think. I want to run down to my practice room and shut myself in. I need to play my violin, right now. I need to play Bach, to feel his calm and the perfect order of his ideas.
“Gwen?”
It’s Robert. I shut my eyes and shake my head. “Shhh.”
“Gwen—you have to call the police. Now.”
I open my eyes. I pick up the handset from the desk phone and the sharp dial tone fills the study. I push 9, and then 1, and then I stop. Still holding the phone, I swivel to face Robert.
“Who says we have to call the police right away? Why not wait, wait until Mr. Grant calls back? Or even wait until tomorrow? Or Tuesday? I mean, it’s horrible and everything, about Grampa, but the second we call the police, then everything goes completely out of control. And Grampa wanted me to keep working, to follow through on my auditions. He wanted me to.”
But even as those words come out, I know I’m being irrational. And disgustingly selfish. And I already wish I hadn’t said it.
Robert’s shaking his head. “Gwen—no. You have to call now. Someone is dead . Downstairs. You have
And my story, that simple story of a girl trying to get into music school, my story feels like it’s been swallowed up whole, the way an owl eats a mouse.
Then it’s like this huge gust of wind pushes through my mind and all the fog is gone. Everything snaps sharp and clear.
It’s my voice again, closer now. “You have to leave, Robert. Right now. Before I call the police. You need to get back to your hotel. You were never here. This is a mess. A huge mess. And it’s got nothing to do with you. Unless you stay. So you’ve got to go. Right now, okay? And I’ll go around and wipe off all your fingerprints. No one will know you were here. So go, okay?”
“I can’t do that.”
The look on Robert’s face. Very sweet. And protective.
I say, “But you have to go. This is going to ruin everything for me, but it’s not your problem. It’s my grampa, and it’s my problem. So go. But first help me go through the house and clean up.”
He shakes his head. “I really can’t leave—I mean, think about it. I’m a witness here. Because you’re a suspect too. I can’t leave. They’d find out I was here anyway. Think how many people on this block have seen me go in and out with you. And if you wiped my fingerprints off the freezer, you might wipe away something the police will need. We have to tell them everything, tell it exactly the way it happened. Even the part about me faking the voice to your uncle Hank. I might get in some trouble for that, but if I walk away, that’s a real crime. This is serious. And I’m probably a suspect too.”
I’m hearing what Robert is saying, but I’m stuck back near the beginning. That one thing he said: Because you’re a suspect too.
Me, a suspect. In the mysterious death of my own grandfather. A suspect.
So I go into the study, and I pick up the phone. But then I hang up.
Robert’s watching me. “What’re you doing?”
I don’t want to explain myself. I pull my cell phone from the pocket of my jeans, and I punch the menu button until I find the call log, and then I scroll until I see a number I don’t recognize. I push Dial, and after five rings it goes to voice mail: “This is Kenneth Grant. Please leave a message.”
After the beep I say, “Mr. Grant? This is Gwendolyn Page, Lawrence Page’s granddaughter. I just found my grampa. He’s . . . dead. He’s in the freezer, here at his house. In the utility room. And I have to call 911. And I wanted to ask you what else I should do. Because you said I should call if I needed any help. And I . . . I need help.”
Then I push the End button, because that’s all there is to say.
Robert’s nodding. “That was a good idea.”
I sit in the big desk chair. It’s so still, so quiet in this house. I love that silence. I wish it could stay like this, so calm. I need to think. I want to run down to my practice room and shut myself in. I need to play my violin, right now. I need to play Bach, to feel his calm and the perfect order of his ideas.
“Gwen?”
It’s Robert. I shut my eyes and shake my head. “Shhh.”
“Gwen—you have to call the police. Now.”
I open my eyes. I pick up the handset from the desk phone and the sharp dial tone fills the study. I push 9, and then 1, and then I stop. Still holding the phone, I swivel to face Robert.
“Who says we have to call the police right away? Why not wait, wait until Mr. Grant calls back? Or even wait until tomorrow? Or Tuesday? I mean, it’s horrible and everything, about Grampa, but the second we call the police, then everything goes completely out of control. And Grampa wanted me to keep working, to follow through on my auditions. He wanted me to.”
But even as those words come out, I know I’m being irrational. And disgustingly selfish. And I already wish I hadn’t said it.
Robert’s shaking his head. “Gwen—no. You have to call now. Someone is dead . Downstairs. You have
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