scared the crap out of me, and these dim, narrow wooden steps rank alongside the mausoleums in the cemetery. Still spooky, they’re now stacked with books and newspapers and even a bed frame on its side. Simon referred to this mess as Sutton treasures. All I see is junk.
The second door swings inward to an old butler’s pantry, where I vaguely remember hiding once upon a time with tins of shortbread cookies and praline patties. On the other side of the pantry is another door leading to the dining room. Light from behind me pitches my shadow across cabinets and shelves on one side and a floor-to-ceiling wine rack on the other. I could use a nice red blend about now, and I’m a bit disappointed that the rack holds bottles of water instead. I turn my attention to the shelves stocked with groceries: bread, pasta, and soup. Boxes of crackers and cans of tuna. Canned fruits and veggies and a bag of potato chips.
What? My attention returns to the bright-yellow-and-white bag almost hidden within the variegated shadows. I walk forward, and the pantry door swings closed behind me. Junk food was not on the grocery list! The grocery list I made was filled with nutritious food—with the exception of Mom’s Pirate’s Booty, of course. I certainly never would have requested an ultimate bag of chip perfection, and I wonder how it got in here. I shove a box of crackers in front of all that salty goodness. Out of sight, out of mind, but the Lay’s potato chips know my weakness and seem to taunt me.
Lou Ann. Lou Ann. You know you can’t resist our salty yumminess.
I tell myself to back away slowly, not to reach for the bag, definitely not to rip it open. That’s what I tell myself, but of course I don’t listen, and the scent of greasy potatoes fills my nostrils as I tear it open.
“Just one,” I whisper. Crunching fills my ears, and my taste buds experience nirvana. I haven’t had an orgasm in a long time, but this is close. “One more, and that’s it.”
I need to unpack my clothes and set up my office in the library. I need to make beds, put up the monitors, and lay down the sensor mats. I have so many things I need to do, but I lean back and slide down the cabinet until my butt hits the hardwood floor.
I shove another chip into my mouth without bothering to lie about having just one. It’s been so long—years of dieting myself into a size 4 so I’d look like a size 6 on TV—and the chips taste even better than I remember. They even come with a quality guarantee right on the bag. It would be nice if men came with a SUPREME SATISFACTION stamp on their foreheads, although at this point, I’d settle for somewhat satisfying.
I like sitting in here in the dark, just me and the disappointing wine rack. I can lick my salty lips and fingers, burp like a beer-bellied trucker, swear like a parolee if I want, and no one will know.
I unscrew the bottle of water and take a big swig, then smash more chips into my mouth. I have to let Mom’s cutting words roll off me. I have to learn a better way to deal with the insanity she creates in my head. I can’t continue to hold it all inside until I blow and start yelling the f-word in public. Especially not when a certain person opens the back door and looks down at me as if he smells something bad. As if I’m a monster yelling at my poor, sick mother.
Not that I give a fucking fuck what he thinks.
I need to work hard on my involuntary reactions to Mom. My automatic responses took root decades ago, but I can change. From now on, I’m going to smile and bite my tongue. I’m not going to argue with her even if it kills me.
I shove more chips in my mouth and lean my head back. It’s cool and quiet here in the pantry—well, except for the crunching. I can breathe. No one knows where I am, and I find an odd comfort in that.
Until, that is, the door swings open and almost hits me. “Are you hiding in here?” My gaze travels up long legs and worn-out jeans.
I shake my head and swallow. Simon isn’t scowling this time, but he does look at me like I’m