Hush, Hush (Hush, Hush #1)

Hush, Hush (Hush, Hush #1) Page 22

“I fell asleep. If I’d heard you come in, I would have said something.” She pushed her hair off her face and blinked owlishly. “What time is it?”

I collapsed into the nearest armchair and tried to recover my normal heart rate. My imagination had conjured up a pair of ruthless eyes behind a ski mask. Now that I was positive he wasn’t a figment of my imagination, I had an overwhelming desire to tell my mom everything, from the way he’d jumped on the Neon to his role as Vee’s attacker. He was stalking me, and he was violent. We’d get new locks on the doors. And it seemed logical that the police would get involved. I’d feel much safer at night with an officer parked on the curb.

“I was going to wait to bring this up,” my mom said, interrupting my thought process, “but I’m not sure the perfect moment is ever going to present itself.”

I frowned. “What’s going on?”

She gave a long, troubled sigh. “I’m thinking about putting the farmhouse up for sale.”

“What? Why?”

“We’ve been struggling for a year, and I’m not pulling in as much as I’d hoped. I’ve considered taking a second job, but honestly, I’m not sure there are enough hours in the day.” She laughed without any trace of humor. “Dorothea’s wages are modest, but it’s extra money we don’t have. The only other thing I can think of is moving into a smaller house. Or an apartment.”

“But this is our house.” All my memories were here. The memory of my dad was here. I couldn’t believe she didn’t feel the same way. I would do whatever it took to stay.

“I’ll give it three more months,” she said. “But I don’t want to get your hopes up.”

Right then I knew I couldn’t tell my mom about the guy in the ski mask. She’d quit work tomorrow.

She’d get a local job, and there’d be absolutely no choice but to sell the farmhouse.

“Let’s talk about something brighter,” Mom said, pushing her mouth into a smile. “How was dinner?”

“Fine,” I said morosely.

“And Vee? How’s she recovering?”

“She can go back to school tomorrow.”

Mom smiled wryly. “It’s a good thing she broke her left arm. Otherwise she wouldn’t be able to take notes in class, and I can only imagine how disappointing that would have been for her.”

“Ha, ha,” I said. “I’m going to make hot chocolate.” I stood and pointed over my shoulder into the kitchen. “Want some?”

“That actually sounds perfect. I’ll start the fire.”

After a quick trip to the kitchen to round up mugs, sugar, and the cocoa canister, I came back to find that Mom had a kettle of water on the wood­burning stove. I perched myself on the arm of the sofa and handed her a mug.

“How did you know you were in love with Dad?” I asked, striving to sound casual. There was always the chance that discussing Dad would bring on a tearfest, something I hoped to avoid.

Mom settled into the sofa and propped her feet up on the coffee table. “I didn’t. Not until we’d been married about a year.”

It wasn’t the answered I’d expected. “Then … why did you marry him?”

“Because I thought I was in love. And when you think you’re in love, you’re willing to stick it out and make it work until it is love.”

“Were you scared?”

“To marry him?” She laughed. “That was the exciting part. Shopping for a gown, reserving the chapel, wearing my diamond solitaire.”

I pictured Patch’s mischievous smile. “Were you ever scared of Dad?”

“Whenever the New England Patriots lost.”

Whenever the Patriots lost, my dad went to the garage and revved up his chainsaw. Two autumns ago he hauled the chain­saw to the woods behind our property, felled ten trees, and diced them into firewood.

We still have more than half the pile to burn through.

Mom patted the sofa beside her, and I curled up against her, resting my head on her shoulder. “I miss him,” I said.

“Me too.”

“I’m afraid I’ll forget what he looked like. Not in pictures, but hanging around on a Saturday morning in sweats, making scrambled eggs.”

Mom laced her fingers through mine. “You’ve always been so much like him, right from the start.”

“Really?” I sat up. “In what way?”

“He was a good student, very clever. He wasn’t flashy or out­spoken, but people respected him.”

“Was Dad ever … mysterious?”

Mom seemed to turn this over in her mind. “Mysterious people have a lot of secrets. Your father was very open.”

“Was he ever rebellious?”

She gave a short, startled laugh. “Did you see him that way? Harrison Grey, the world’s most ethical accountant … rebellious?” She gave a theatrical gasp. “Heaven forbid! He did wear his hair long for a while. It was wavy and blond—like a surfer’s. Of course, his horn­rimmed glasses killed the look. So

… do I dare ask what got us on this subject?”

I had no idea how to explain my conflicting feelings for Patch to my mom. I had no idea how to explain Patch, period. My mom was probably expecting a description that included his parents’ names, his GPA, the varsity sports he played, and which colleges he planned on applying to. I didn’t want to alarm her by saying I was willing to bet my piggy bank that Patch had a rap sheet. “There’s this guy,” I said, unable to hold back a smile at the thought of Patch. “We’ve been hanging out lately. Mostly school stuff.”

“Ooh, a boy,” she said mysteriously. “Well? Is he in the Chess Club? Student Council? The tennis team?”

“He likes pool,” I offered optimistically.

“A swimmer! Is he as cute as Michael Phelps? Of course, I always leaned toward Ryan Lochte when it came to appearances.”

I thought about correcting my mom. On second thought, it was probably best not to clarify. Pool, swimming … close enough, right?

The phone rang and Mom stretched across the sofa to answer it. Ten seconds into the call she flopped back against the sofa and slapped a hand to her forehead. “No, it’s not a problem. I’ll run over, pick it up, and bring it by first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Hugo?” I asked after she hung up. Hugo was my mom’s boss, and to say he called all the time was putting it mildly. Once, he’d called her into work on a Sunday because he couldn’t figure out how to operate the copy machine.

“He left some unfinished paperwork in the office and needs me to run over. I have to make copies, but I shouldn’t be gone more than an hour. Have you finished your homework?”

“Not yet.”

“Then I’ll tell myself we couldn’t have spent time together even if I was here.” She sighed and rose to her feet. “See you in an hour?”

“Tell Hugo he should pay you more.”

She laughed. “A lot more.”

As soon as I had the house to myself, I cleared the breakfast dishes off the kitchen table and made room for my textbooks. English, world history, biology. Arming myself with a brand­new number two pencil, I flipped open the top book and went to work.

Fifteen minutes later my mind rebelled, refusing to digest another paragraph on European feudal systems. I wondered what Patch was doing after he got off work. Homework? Hard to believe. Eating pizza and watching basketball on TV? Maybe, but it didn’t feel right. Placing bets and playing pool at Bo’s Arcade? It seemed like a good guess.

I had the unexplainable desire to drive to Bo’s and defend my earlier behavior, but the thought was quickly put into perspective by the simple fact that I didn’t have time. My mom would be home in less time than it took to make the half­hour drive there. Not to mention, Patch wasn’t the kind of guy I could just go hunt down. In the past, our meetings had operated on his schedule, not mine. Always.

I climbed the stairs to change into something comfy. I pushed on my bedroom door and took three steps inside before stopping short. My dresser drawers were yanked out, clothes strewn across the floor. The bed was ripped apart. The closet doors were open, hanging askew by their hinges. Books and picture frames littered the floor.

I saw the reflection of movement in the window across the room and swung around. He stood against the wall behind me, dressed head to toe in black and wearing the ski mask. My brain was in a swirling fog, just beginning to transmit run! to my legs, when he lunged for the window, threw it open, and ducked lithely out.

I took the stairs down three at a time. I flung myself around the banister, flew down the hall to the kitchen, and dialed 911.

Fifteen minutes later a patrol car bumped into the driveway. Shaking, I unbolted the door and let the two officers in. The first officer to step inside was short and thick­waisted with salt­and­pepper hair.

The other was tall and lean with hair almost as dark as Patch’s, but cropped above his ears. In a strange way, he vaguely resembled Patch. Mediterranean complexion, symmetrical face, eyes with an edge.

They introduced themselves; the dark­haired officer was Detective Basso. His partner was Detective Holstijic.

“Are you Nora Grey?” Detective Holstijic asked.

I nodded.

“Your parents home?”

“My mom left a few minutes before I called 911.”

“So you’re home alone?”

Another nod.

“Why don’t you tell us what happened?” he asked, crossing his arms and planting his feet wide, while Detective Basso walked a few paces inside the house and took a look around.

“I came home at eight and did some homework,” I said. “When I went up to my bedroom, I saw him.

Everything was a mess. He tore my room apart.”

“Did you recognize him?”

“He was wearing a ski mask. And the lights were off.”

“Any distinguishing marks? Tattoos?”

“No.”

“Height? Weight?”

I delved reluctantly into my short­term memory. I didn’t want to relive the moment, but it was important that I recall any clues. “Average weight, but a little on the tall side. About the same size as Detective Basso.”

“Did he say anything?”

I shook my head.

Detective Basso reappeared and said, “All clear,” to his partner. Then he climbed to the second floor.

The floorboards creaked overhead as he moved down the hall, opening and shutting doors.

Detective Holstijic cracked the front door and squatted to examine the deadbolt. “Was the door unlocked or damaged when you came home?”

“No. I used my key to get in. My mom was asleep in the living room.”

Detective Basso appeared at the top of the stairs.

“Can you show us what’s damaged?” he asked me.

Detective Holstijic and I climbed the stairs together, and I led the way down the hall to where Detective Basso stood just inside my bedroom door with his hands on his hips, surveying my room.