Things We Didn't Say - By Kristina Riggle Page 0,21
dust and some old sheet music. I scuttle backward out from under there, brushing dust bunnies off my shirt. I look at Dylan’s sock and underwear drawer. That’s where I used to hide things, way toward the back of my deep old-fashioned dresser. Dylan puts away his own laundry. It’s one of the kid’s chores.
I can’t see in the back of the drawer, but my hand crawls among the socks, and I hope I don’t find anything lurid in there, the kinds of things a pubescent boy would hide in his room. My hand lands on something smooth, cool, and plastic.
His phone.
There’s a folded piece of paper inside the case, with the light blue lines and ragged edges of a spiral notebook. I unfold it—other than the sharp creases the paper is flat and even, so it looks fresh—and read this in Dylan’s precise printing: Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.
Michael comes in to see me holding it. Before I can protest, he snatches it and the phone out of my hand. He reads the note, then throws it down on the floor. “Fuck.”
I bend to get it as Michael rubs his temples. “That’s good, right? That means he left of his own will. Better than . . .”
“I guess. Yeah. But . . . What the hell, Casey? Why would he leave? I mean, all the crazy times we had when Mallory lived with us, and now?”
I step forward to try to embrace him. Michael returns the hug, but stiffly, his air distracted, as of course he would be. With his other hand he’s turned on Dylan’s phone. “Empty,” he says. “Nothing in his address book. Looks like he’s got a bunch of voice mail, but I’m sure that’s all us. He purged it. Where’s his laptop?”
I shake my head. “Can’t find it. Why didn’t he take his phone?”
“Cell phones can be traced. Shit.”
Michael picks up the note again and turns away, running down the stairs. I trail after him until he reaches the file cabinet in the home office, what must have once been a sort of parlor or sitting room at the front of the house. He riffles through the file cabinet. “Cell phone bills,” he says by way of general announcement. He looks up at Mallory and Angel.
“We found a note. He ran away.”
They both gasp, trading looks. Angel allows a hesitant smile, but Mallory seems to be not at all mollified.
Angel goes to her father’s side, helping him look for the bills. We never bothered investigating Dylan’s calling habits before. As long as he stayed under his allotted minutes, we didn’t have any reason to care.
“Shit,” Michael mutters. He shows me the most recent bill. No phone numbers on it, just the basics. It does, however, show a big spike in his calling activity from what we’re used to seeing.
He seizes the desk phone and starts to dial.
“What did you find out? Did you hack in?” demands Mallory.
I shake my head. “His laptop is gone. He either took it with him or hid it somewhere besides his room.”
Mallory shakes her head. “No. He wouldn’t do this on purpose. He wouldn’t just . . . leave. It doesn’t make sense. Unless . . .”
Mallory advances on me, and I can smell her perfume, a tangy citrus that tickles my nose. The emerging wrinkles around her eyes are cakey with makeup. “Unless it’s you. We never had any trouble with Dylan before, and suddenly you’re here and he’s gone all secretive and now he’s run away.”
Michael is behind me, on the phone to the cell phone company, demanding a detailed copy of their bill, phone numbers and all. He’s getting transferred. Angel hovers near his shoulder, but she keeps glancing our way.
“What are you trying to say?” I ask her.
“I’m trying to say he’s obviously not happy with his new little family here, is he?”
“Nor is he happy with the old one, because he didn’t run to you.”
“Yes, please, kick me while I’m down, while my son is gone.”
“He’s gone from me, too! He’s my stepson!”
“He is not. He is the son of your fiancé, who happens to have primary physical custody. For now, anyway.”
I will not take the bait. I will not.
Mallory ignores my nonresponse. She gets closer yet, until I can see her pores. Her voice drops in pitch and volume. “He ran away from here, so your record as a not-even-stepmother is not exactly perfect. But mine?” She takes a step back and