Page 144 of Evil Bones
Turned out my menu choices wouldn’t matter.
For emergencies, I have a key to Katy’s home. Out of courtesy, I always ring before entering.
I did so then.
No one came to the door.
I rang again.
Same result.
Thinking Katy might be outside on the rooftop terrace, I let myself in.
The place was cemetery quiet.
I checked the living and dining rooms, then called up the stairs.
Nothing.
Had I misunderstood?
Digging my mobile from my shoulder bag, I thumbed an entry on my list of family numbers. Somewhere in the rear, a rooster crowed.
Finding that strange, since Katy owned no poultry, I followed the sound to the kitchen.
Thecock-a-doodle-doo-ing was coming from a mobile lying on a countertop by the back door. Crossing to it, I saw my number filling the screen. The digits disappeared as the crowing stopped.
Puzzled, I disconnected, pocketed my cell, and looked around. A crusted fry pan sat on the stovetop. Dirty dishes formed a wobbly stack in the sink.
Odd. Though somewhat disorganized in her day-to-day dealings, my daughter keeps an uncharacteristically tidy house. She claims that disorder in her personal space makes her itchy.
Returning to the front hall, I hollered up the stairs again.
“Katy?” Louder than before.
Crickets.
Feeling the first stirrings of unease, I climbed to the second floor and checked each of the bedrooms. Ditto the third floor, then the terrace.
The town house was deserted.
I stood silently for a moment, a listless breeze halfheartedly teasing my bangs. Four floors down, rush-hour drivers impatiently accelerated and braked, irked with the same jam-up they faced every day.
My emotions ping-ponged, unsure whether to land on anxious or angry.
Had some unexpected issue arisen after my conversation with Katy? We’d spoken less than an hour ago, so that seemed doubtful. And, were that the case, surely my daughter would have texted or phoned.
Perhaps left a note?
Seeing that possibility as likely, I double-stepped down to the first floor.
The sideboard by the front door was empty. Ditto the dining room and kitchen tables. The counters. I spotted no scribbled message taped to a mirror or wall.
Peering out through the kitchen window, I checked the backyard but noted nothing amiss. Through the row of small glass squares on the garage door I saw a dark silhouette I knew to be Katy’s Volvo.
Baffled, I stood with my hand on the sill, unsure of my next move.
Wait?
