The Odds - Jeff Strand Page 0,13

stakes, I promise you, they are real.”

“This is so fucked up. When does it end?”

“I don’t have a timeline for you. Hopefully it ends with your victory.”

“You know, I had to rush out of the house during dinner. I never do that. I make everybody sit at the table with no outside distractions. So if you don’t want me to tell anybody about what’s happening, how about you not call when I’m having dinner with my family, okay?”

“I apologize for calling at a bad time,” said Rick. “But guess what? That’s part of the game. I’m not going to make it easy for you to keep this a secret, as you’ll find out very soon. Anyway, go home. You have spaghetti waiting.”

5

As he drove home, Ethan did a lot of deep breathing and tried to calm himself down, so that his lie of “Everything’s fine!” would not be so transparent. He could see in the rearview mirror that his face was pale, but since he didn’t have a makeup kit in the car there wasn’t much he could do about that.

“Sorry about that,” he said as he walked back inside. Jenny and the kids were still at the dinner table.

“What was wrong?” Jenny asked.

“Nothing. False alarm.”

“Since when do they call you at home?”

“It’s these auditors,” said Ethan. “They don’t have the usual boundaries. They’re a complete pain in the butt. I’d tell them to knock it off, but, y’know, it’s not a good idea to make the auditors mad.”

“What are auditors?” asked Tim.

“They’re mean people who spend all day trying to find your mistakes.”

“Like my teacher?”

“No, Ms. Neary is trying to help you learn.”

“Dad,” said Patrick, “you tracked dirt through the living room.”

Oh, shit. “Whoops.” Ethan walked back to the front door and took off his shoes. The sand had all come off but he’d gotten dirt on his shoes running through the playground. Would that seem suspicious? It wasn’t as if there weren’t perfectly normal ways to get dirt on one’s shoes that didn’t involve sprinting through a playground after saving children from hypodermic needles hidden by a madman.

He returned to the table. Everybody else was almost finished with their meal. He swirled some spaghetti around on his fork and took a bite.

“What kind of false alarm?” Jenny asked.

Her tone seemed to be genuine curiosity and not “I know you’re a lying piece of garbage.” He couldn’t blame her for not ignoring it. Getting a call from work and immediately rushing out of the house was simply not a thing that ever happened.

“There is something seriously wrong with this auditor,” said Ethan. “When he wants something, he wants it now, and he doesn’t care if everybody else has gone home for the day. He also left a message for Craig, and Craig got him what he needed. It’s crazy. I may have to say something.”

“Well, like you said, don’t get the auditors mad at you,” said Jenny. Did she believe him, or was she temporarily letting him off the hook? He couldn’t quite tell. If it was the latter, he supposed he’d find out soon enough.

Normally the rule was that nobody left the table until everybody was done eating, but there were exceptions, and he couldn’t very well make Tim and Patrick sit there and watch him finish when he’d been absent for most of the meal, so he released them. Jenny didn’t leave.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Yeah, why?”

“You seem really stressed out.”

“Audits are stressful. This one way more than usual.”

“Sorry,” she said, reaching out and taking his hand. “That sucks.”

“It should be over soon.”

“I hope so.”

The doorbell rang. Ethan flinched.

“I’ll get it!” Tim called out.

Ethan started to call out, no, he’d do it, but Tim was always the designated door answerer. If Ethan acted concerned about Tim answering the door, that would send up a huge red flag. It would be fine. It wasn’t as if Rick would send somebody to grab his son as soon as he opened the door.

He was terrified, but he couldn’t let this seem more unusual than it already did.

Tim opened the door.

He didn’t speak to anybody.

He closed the door again.

Oh, God, did he go outside?

Tim walked into the dining room, holding a white cardboard box. “This came for you, Dad,” he said, setting the box on the table.

It hadn’t been mailed. It just said “To Ethan Caustin” in fancy black ink.

“What is it?” Tim asked.

“I’m not sure,” said Ethan, even though he knew exactly what it was.

“Do you want me to get