“Uhh,” Wendy stalled. She couldn’t think of an excuse fast enough that didn’t involve Peter.
“Good, then you’re free to help,” Mrs. Darling said, plopping a mound of scrambled eggs onto a plate for herself. “You can start with the laundry while I clean up the kitchen, and then we can both work on the living room.”
Wendy sat down heavily at the table. “Greeeat,” she muttered. Since when did her mother care about cleaning? Usually it was Wendy who picked up around the house. Sure, not a lot of chores had gotten done lately, but she had a good reason for it. Of course, now her mother wanted to get involved.
Meeting up with Peter would have to wait until she’d cleaned enough to satisfy her mother or Mrs. Darling went to work. Wendy looked down at her hand. Waiting to be able to see him again was not going to be fun. She had a feeling the day was going to drag on.
And drag on it did.
When she went to throw a load of laundry in the washing machine, she saw that Peter’s clothes were gone. She checked the dryer and it was also empty. Well, at least he wasn’t out walking around in her shirt and gym shorts that didn’t fit him, but did that mean he’d left in wet clothes?
Wendy tossed out all the old magazines her mom had brought home from work to read, put abandoned mugs in the dishwasher, and wiped down the top of the TV and entertainment unit.
“Could you clean out the garbage from your father’s study?” Mrs. Darling asked as she washed her hands clean of dust in the kitchen sink.
Wendy glanced at the closed door. “Uh…” Really? She wanted Wendy to go into the study? “Sure,” Wendy said hesitantly. She got a garbage bag and paused at the door. She had never been explicitly forbidden from going inside, but it was always off limits, another unspoken rule of the house. It was her father’s cave, where he’d go to hibernate away from his family and the real world with a bottle of scotch.
Wendy pushed the door open and stepped inside. It was a lot cleaner than she’d expected. Two of the walls were painted emerald green and the others were completely filled with shelves of books, but not the good kind of books that Wendy and her mother liked to read. They were old, tattered things with peeling covers, or newer paperbacks about accounting. There was even a particularly archaic set of encyclopedias. Wendy was pretty certain they didn’t make those anymore.
A brown leather armchair sat in one corner of the room with a reading lamp perched on an end table next to it. Set in the back of the room was a heavy-looking wooden desk. There were opened letters, a couple stacks of paper, and a scotch decanter set on the corner. The decanter only had about two inches of amber liquid left in it.
Wendy crossed the room to the trash basket tucked under the desk. There were only a couple of empty beer bottles inside.
She emptied them into the large garbage bag in her hand. When she went to pluck a lone beer bottle from the desk, she noticed a small wooden tray filled with loose change, a letter opener, and a half-empty pack of gum. However, what caught her attention was a key, or rather the keychain attached to it. It was a circular piece of dark leather with #1 Dad sloppily burned into it. Wendy recognized it as the keychain she, John, and Michael had made for their father when they were away at summer camp one year. Since Father’s Day had happened while they were away, they decided to make him a keychain in woodshop. They picked out a piece of leather and Wendy used a wood-burning pen to brand #1 Dad into it with the help of an instructor.
Wendy stared at the key. What did it open? It wasn’t the house key—it was too small—and it wasn’t his office key—that one he kept attached to his work badge.
The only other door with a lock was her old room.
Wendy picked up the key and turned it over in her hand. Maybe this was it?
“What are you doing in here?”
Wendy jumped and looked up to see her father standing in the doorway.
“Dad, hi!” She tucked the key into her pocket and snatched the beer bottle off the desk. Wendy turned to face