The Perfect Escape (The Perfect Escape #1) - Suzanne Park Page 0,26

with my flannel shirtsleeve.

Jeeves added, “Your father arrived from the airport at three thirty-seven p.m. Pacific Standard Time.”

“Oh, is he home?” I’d forgotten this was one of the weekends he was back.

“He is in the master bedroom. His wristwatch monitor data indicates a resting heartbeat of sixty-eight BPM. Low oxygen levels suggest he may have sleep apnea.”

I padded down the hall to his room. There was a Do not disturb message on the screen next to the door frame. Deep, rhythmic snuffles accompanied by cartoonish little snort-snores came through the closed door. Based on his slow, heavy breathing, he’d likely sleep through the night. Well-rested Dad was way better than a groggy, sleep-deprived one.

Things used to be different. Dad was different. He used to be the chauffeur, Mom was the trip planner, and I was the snack bringer. I missed our day trips to Portland. Our trips to museum mummy exhibitions. Lazy afternoons watching European films where we would take turns reading subtitles in fake French accents, with all three of us eating Ruffles and French onion dip, my culinary specialty.

Dad had become a major workaholic the last few years, which served him well in the corporate world. Chief executive officer at Digitools at age forty-nine. He’d also become a major snoopaholic, sending me itemized emails on a weekly basis now that required an immediate response (my house, my rules) like the one he’d sent me that morning.

Subject: Oct. breakdown so far

From: Robbie Anderson-Steele

To: Kate Anderson

Date: Friday, October 11, 5:58 a.m.

My questions:

Home Incoming call: 10/3, 48 min from unknown # (school night). Homework-related?

Home Outgoing call: 10/5, 15 min to Pitstop Pizza. Why was call so long?

Home Outgoing call: 10/6, 5 min to Pitstop Pizza. Pizza 2 days in a row?

Home Outgoing call: 10/8, 1 min Zombie Laboratory. Assume wrong number?

Grocery bill last month: $214.44. $14.44 over your budget. Pls explain.

Credit card dinner purchases: $100.72. 72 cents over budget.

9/4–10/4 daily online average: 1:44. Over by 14 min. Don’t make me cut off internet.

Oct. cell phone usage so far is 2 min. Broken? Or did you lose it?

Misc: Workers coming by house on Friday to assess storm damage on the two gates and may install heat-sensing cameras in hallways. Jeeves going through some firmware updates tonight—he’ll be off-line at midnight EST.

—R.

No “Hello from Shanghai” or “How’s school?” Not even a “Love, Dad” sign-off. Ditching the nanny this year wasn’t such a good thing for my independence after all. Instead, Dad just ramped up his security a hundredfold, forcing me to find ways to outsmart his patrol. I never drove my dad’s car, which had GPS tracking. I’d opened a secret savings account six months ago. He didn’t know anything about my escape room job either. I didn’t share any of this with anyone. I couldn’t. Not even with Zoe in New York, or Raina, my friend since third grade. She was the closest thing to family I had here, and I barely spoke to her at school these days.

Shooting one last long look at Dad’s closed door, I settled on dinner for one. I made myself a ham sandwich and cracked open a cold can of Dr Pepper. I smiled to myself, thinking about how Jeeves almost called 911 earlier. I tossed some chips and grapes on the plate and carried everything to my room.

The house phone ring blasted through the house. “Incoming call! Rohit Mishra!”

I hated how it sometimes announced the account owner’s name—in this case, Raina’s dad. I whisper-hissed, “Answer call!” because I didn’t want to wake Dad.

Raina’s booming voice pierced through my room’s speaker, sounding as perky as ever. “Mom! I need the car toni—oh—Kate! You’re there! Wanna go with me to a movie premiere tonight?”

“Movie premiere” was Raina code for “Want to drive me to a parentless party, so I can get hammered and you can drive my boozy ass home?”

“Errr, no thanks. I have to finish my homework.”

“Awww, c’mon. We haven’t hung out in forever,” she pouted.