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  I unlock the door to let them back in. “Did you find anything?” I ask them.

  “Looks like someone might’ve been trying to make a path through the woods,” the detective says. “There was an area about thirty yards down where the bushes got trampled and some of the tree limbs were broken, but it only stretched about ten feet.”

  “Our guess is that whoever did it either found another way or simply changed his mind,” Nolan says. “Otherwise, it all looked pretty clear, but we’ll have some officers patrolling the area, just in case.”

  “In case he comes back?”

  “If it even was him,” she says. “You didn’t see his face, correct?”

  “No.” I shake my head.

  “And, as you probably well know, these woods are pretty popular at night. We found beer cans, cigarette butts, and lots of empty bottles. Seems we may need to have some of our officers on party patrol.”

  It’s true. My parents are always complaining about the kids who abuse these woods. They’ve called the police on more than one occasion, and have gone out themselves to break things up.

  “We recently received two calls from the town of Millis,” Detective Mueller adds. “It seems that someone fitting the suspect’s description was seen early this morning digging inside a Dumpster and then breaking into a parked car.”

  “Millis?” I ask, trying to picture where it’s located.

  “The train by the high school goes to Millis,” the detective says. “It’s about three hours north.”

  Three hours away.

  The tension in my heart lifts.

  Officer Nolan hands me another business card. “But please, call us for anything—even if you think it’s nothing.”

  “Thank you,” I say, watching them leave—out the back door and around to the side yard—trampling through the six inches of leaves that I still have to rake.

  Thursday, October 15

  Night

  “Serves you right”—Dad’s voice was inside my head. “What were you even thinking? Steven would never have been so stupid.”

  I woke up. My clothes were soaked. My hair felt wet. I was burning-hot, and shivering from my sweat. I tried to get up, but the motion made me sick. The sound of my retching filled the dark silence, but I couldn’t help it. My stomach convulsed. My nostrils filled with acid as I heaved over and over.

  My mother continued to read from Steven’s storybook. Her voice played over my father’s words: “But Detective Panda had another idea in mind: he was going to help save the town of Panderville by finding that pesky sock thief.”

  My head ached. The room wouldn’t stop spinning. I covered my ears, trying to muffle their voices.

  “You have to dig a whole lot deeper than that,” Mom said. “Keep going until the soil changes color. That’s when you know you’ve gone deep enough.”

  “It’s because of you that your brother’s gone,” Dad told me.

  Their words were haunting me. My body was punishing me.

  The door flew open then. Footsteps moved in my direction. The toolboxes opened and closed behind me with a clank. I closed my eyes, huddled against the wall with a tarp pulled over me like a blanket.

  Was that the mower being moved? The blower being jostled? My water bottle being kicked?

  There was more shifting against the floor. Someone was getting closer, just to my right and then over to my left. Where had I left my backpack?

  I sucked in my breath. Droplets of sweat dripped down my face. My throat burned.

  Things went silent for a moment—all except for my heart. It pounded in my chest; the sound echoed inside my brain. I clenched my teeth, half-tempted to come clean. Were they watching me shivering my ass off? Was the tarp jangling along with my nerves?

  I lay there, frozen, trying not to breathe, feeling like I was going to yack again. There were voices outside. They mixed with the words in my head.

  Finally, the person moved away. The door closed with a thwack. I got up to bolt.

  I open the door to the barn. The air inside smells damp, like rotten wood. There’s a row of tools hanging on the wall. I go to reach for the rake, wondering where the leaf bags are. I search around, suddenly noticing that the space looks off. The snow blower and lawn mower have both been moved. Dad’s toolboxes are all lined up in a row. The sandbags are no longer collected in the corner.

  There’s a tarp stretched out on the floor—the same one Dad uses for camping trips. I go to pick it up.

  And that’s when I see him.

  His face is only partially obscured by the tarp.

  My heart tightens. The room starts to whir.

  “Day?” Mom calls.

  I peer over my shoulder. The door to the barn has fallen partially closed.

  “Are you out here?” Mom shouts.

  I exit the barn, feeling like I’ve just been shot out of a cannon: dazed, confused, shocked, out of sorts. Did that really just happen? Did I really just see him?

  Mom’s standing on the porch. There’s a smile on her face—the first one I’ve seen on her in weeks. It fades when she sees me. “Is everything okay?”

  I cross the yard. My head feels woozy.

  Mom places her hands on my shoulders and looks straight into my eyes. “What’s wrong?” she asks.

  If I tell her the truth, the police will come. Is that what I want?

  My body trembles from the cold. I need time to process everything. “I’m feeling a little dizzy,” I tell her. It’s the truth, after all.

  “Come inside,” she says, taking my hand.

  I turn to look over my shoulder at the barn, wondering if he knows I saw him.

  Mom leads me up to my room and tucks me beneath the covers. “I’ll fix you some tea and toast. Then we can talk, sound good?”

  It does. I nod and then turn over in bed. I pretend to fall asleep so I don’t have to talk. But the truth is that I don’t sleep all night. I just stare toward the window, hoping he’ll be gone by morning.

  Friday, October 16

  Afternoon

  I tried to leave, but barely two steps away, I came to a sudden halt. Stars shot out from behind my eyes, and the room started to tilt. I grabbed the wall for stability and sank down to the floor, waiting for the police to come.

  But no one came. Even hours later. Had she not seen me?

  Early this morning, feeling better, I put everything back the way I found it, like I was never even here—like the way Mom and me used to clean up before my father got home from work.

  “Get every crumb,” she’d say. “Chairs need to be tucked beneath the table, ten inches apart. No streak lines when you wash the cabinets: smooth, smooth, smooth. Daddy doesn’t like a mess. Everything needs to be spick-and-span.”

  Luckily, every time I puked, it landed on the tarp. I rolled it up, glanced out the window, and that’s when I saw her.

  Day.

  She was headed this way, holding a bag in her hand. I backed away from the window, keeping my eye on the knob, waiting for it to turn, flashing forward to what I would say.

  But she didn’t come in.

  I saw her walking away again, her fists tucked into the pockets of her jacket.

  While she went back inside the house, I opened the door. Inside the bag was more food than I’d had in days—granola bars, applesauce, bananas, a loaf of bread—as well as a couple of bottles of water.

  But there was something else too. An envelope. A note for me?

  I opened it up.

  I would like to talk to you about your case. I’ll be back later today.

  At the bottom of the bag was a pad of paper and a pen. Does she expect me to write her back? Nothing makes sense. Who is this girl? Why isn’t she calling the police? What could possibly be in it for her?

  It’s after school, and the bag of food is still hanging on the door handle of the barn, which means he either a) left last night or b) has yet to come out of the barn.

  I’m assuming the first option is the correct
one. I mean, at this point he’s got to suspect that I’m onto him, so why risk sticking around?

  I approach the barn door, pretending to be talking on the phone. “No, that’s fine,” I mutter into the voice piece, feeling stupid for doing so, but if he is still here, I don’t want him to know that I’m totally alone.

  Rain droplets pelt against my face. I mutter a few more words. Meanwhile, a swarm of questions storm inside my head: What will I ask first? Why didn’t I think to make a list? What if he doesn’t want me butting in?

  I take another step, trying to get a grip, but my pulse races and my insides shake. I peer over my shoulder to make sure that no one’s lurking behind me, and then I grab the bag, hating the noise it makes: the crinkle of plastic, the jostling of containers.

  I look inside it. My heart instantly clenches. The container I used for the sandwich appears to be empty. The granola bars are gone, and so are the bananas, my envelope, and the notebook and pen.

  There’s a folded-up note. He wrote me back. Should I read what it says? Or knock on the door?

  I close my eyes, reminding myself that my mom has always been notorious for this kind of thing—getting to the bottom of questionable cases, that is. But does that help ease my anxiety?

  A big. Fat. Walloping. No.

  “Hey, Sunshine,” a voice shouts from behind, making me jump.

  I swivel around to look, hearing a gasp escape from my throat.

  It’s Dad. He crosses the yard, trampling through the fallen leaves. “Sorry if I startled you.” He wraps his arms around me.

  I hold him close, pressing my nose into the nylon of his jacket; he smells different somehow—like cinnamon breath mints. “It’s really good to see you,” I tell him. It’s been almost a week.

  He takes a step back, breaking the embrace moments too soon. His hair looks shorter than normal, like he just got it cut; it’s been purposely messed up with gel, rather than parted to the side in his usual dad do. His clothes are different too—his jeans are darker; his shirt’s snugger against his chest.

  “Your mother’s working late tonight,” he says.

  “How do you know? Did you come to see her?” I can hear the hope in my voice, can feel the desperation in my heart.

  “I came to see you.” He smiles birthday-cake wide, as if that’s the answer I want to hear. “Your mom and I were texting earlier and she mentioned a late meeting, so I brought dinner. Sound good?”

  Before I can answer, he motions to the bag I’m holding.

  “What’s that?” he asks. “And what were you doing? Did I interrupt you from something?” He looks toward the barn door.

  “Nothing.” I shrug, tucking the bag behind my back, as if he can no longer see it. “I was just cleaning up some stuff.”

  “Cleaning…right.” He kicks a pile of leaves. “I imagine you’ve worked up quite an appetite.”

  “Definitely.” I nod and follow him inside, into the dining room, where he’s already cleared the table. The familiar white tote from Tuchi’s Thai House is sitting on the buffet. While Dad unloads it, I place the bag beneath my chair, out of eyeshot, and begin setting the table.

  He’s ordered all of my and Mom’s favorites: fried lemongrass tofu, drunken garlic noodles, sweet-and-sour spring rolls, and caramelized eggplant dumplings. He also got us extra white rice and Tuchi’s famous sticky peanut sauce.

  “This looks incredible,” I say, taking a seat and piling up my plate.

  Dad sits across from me and lights a candle.

  “What’s the occasion?” I ask.

  “Do we need an occasion for candle-lighting?”

  “Normally? Yes. A birthday, a power outage…”

  “How about we change that policy?” He winks. “How about we light a lot more candles.” He opens the wrapper on his package of chopsticks, and instantly I get a gnawing sensation in my gut.

  Because he never uses chopsticks.

  Because Mom and I would always offer to teach him, explaining that part of the culinary experience is eating with the utensils of the country of the food’s origin. But still he’d always insist on a fork.

  So, what’s the difference now? And when did he start winking?

  “It’s been a while since we had Thai food, hasn’t it?” He smiles.

  I nod, unable to take my eyes off the way he holds the sticks, incorporating his thumb and ring finger. He’s no longer wearing his wedding band. There’s a mark on his skin in its place—a blank white circle.

  He smiles wider, even though he’s not supposed to be happy. “I’ve missed our Thai nights.”

  We used to order Thai food most Friday nights; it was our way of starting the weekend right. But that was all BS (Before the Separation, that is), four weeks and five days ago now.

  “So,” he begins, “how have things been around here? Anything exciting going on?”

  I’m tempted to tell him about Julian, especially considering that Dad’s entire career revolves around mentoring people from all walks of life. Dad himself came up with the organization’s acronym: SHINE (Second chances, Honoring each individual, Instilling dignity, Nurturing talent, Equality for all).

  I open my mouth to broach the topic, but before I can utter a sound, music starts to play—an old ’80s song, something about a rose having a thorn….

  Dad fishes inside his pocket for his phone. A new ringtone. A shiny metallic case.

  “What happened to your boring beep?”

  “If you haven’t noticed, I’m trying to put the brakes on boring.” Dad checks the screen and mutes the song.

  “Anything important?”

  “Nothing that can’t wait while I’m having dinner with my number-one girl.” Another stupid grin.

  I hide the revulsion on my face with a giant bite of broccoli.

  “So, tell me, I almost forgot,” he says, “how did your first Peace & Justice meeting go? Did you already have it?”

  “It was yesterday, actually.”

  His phone vibrates against the table. Someone left a message. He checks the screen again. Meanwhile, I try to tell him about the lack of interest at my meeting, but barely three sentences in, he cuts me off, reminding me how Mom had stormed the state house at the ripe old age of twelve, demanding stricter laws on animal testing.

  “And they actually sat back and listened to her.” He laughs. “Your mom…she was a firecracker right out the gate. You should’ve seen her in grad school: everyone wanted in on her action—on whatever cause she stood behind. That kind of fire…it’s magnetic.”

  And apparently I don’t have it.

  “Sounds like you miss her,” I say.

  He looks at me. His smile falls flat. “I miss the way things used to be—here, with all of us.”

  “Does that mean you’ll be coming home soon?” I can already tell that it doesn’t.

  Dad reaches for something else in his pocket—a handful of cash, of all things. He slides it across the table at me—five ten-dollar bills. “Since I haven’t been around to give you an allowance,” he says.

  “Since when have I gotten an allowance?”

  “Use it toward your Peace & Justice mission.”

  “Thanks,” I say, staring at the long string of numbers and letters across one of the bills, wishing it were a code that I could crack—something to make sense of all that’s going on. “But this doesn’t answer my question about you coming home.”

  He stares at me for five long seconds without uttering a single sound. It’s in that silence that the truth becomes clear: He isn’t coming home. He doesn’t ever want to come home. “I love you and I love your mother.”

  “But…” I say, feeling my heart strings tighten.

  “But I think it’s better if your mom and I part ways for a while.”

  I swallow down the truth, almost wishing that I could take the question back, that I could un-hear his horrible answer.

  “Of course that doesn’t mean I’m parting from you,” he continues.

 
“There’s something I need to tell you,” I blurt, still thinking about Julian. Maybe that will bring Dad home.

  “There’s something I need to tell you too.” His eyes go funeral-serious. His mouth is a straight, tense line.

  My stomach drops, already anticipating the worst. I cross my fingers beneath my chair—the way I did when I was five—as if it will bring me luck.

  “I found an apartment,” he says.

  “And?” I ask, already knowing the answer, but I need a moment. This is happening way too fast.

  “And I put down a deposit.”

  “So you’re no longer staying at the motel?”

  “Better than the motel.” His face brightens. “I’ll be right downtown, near one of your favorite places…the independent movie theater. Maybe you’ll use some of that money to see a show and then come visit me.”

  I scoot back in my chair, trying to digest what all of this means.

  “I know.” His voice softens. “This probably wasn’t what you wanted to hear. But you have to understand; it has nothing to do with you.”

  I hate the tone of his voice. I hate his Dr. Phil–speak even more. I just want to hit stop, press rewind, and go back ten years—to my six-year-old princess-themed birthday party, when everything was just horse-drawn carriages and Cinderella castles. “Does Mom know?”

  “About the apartment?”

  “About the fact that you’re no longer wearing your wedding ring, and that you’re not ever coming home.”

  He lets out a sigh, but he doesn’t deny any of it. “I wanted to talk to you first.” He picks up his chopsticks and begins plucking at noodles, trying to make things normal, except the noodles never make it to his mouth.

  “Normal for you is a fork,” I snap.

  Dad makes a face; he doesn’t understand. We’re not speaking the same language.

  My phone chirps. I check the screen. It’s a text from Mom. Her ears must be burning. “Mom will be home in less than an hour,” I tell him, though I thought she was working late. Is she cutting things short to see him? “Will you be sticking around to see her?”