“—I need to know about it.”
“It’s none of your business.”
“Of course it is. You’re a minor.”
“Can we talk about this later? Or never?” She glared at her mom as if Jenna was soooo out of it, which, Jenna supposed, she was. But she had to tread softly or she’d do exactly the opposite of what she wanted and send Cassie reeling into Josh Sykes’s ready and randy arms. Jenna glimpsed the kitchen clock counting off the seconds of her life. “Okay, later. After school, when we have more time.”
“Great. Just what we need. More time,” Cassie mumbled as Jenna, telling herself that timing is everything in life, stepped out of the kitchen and away from the confrontation they’d have this evening. She walked down a short hallway to the bottom of the stairs. “Allie? Are you up?”
She heard the shuffle of feet and Allie, still wearing her pajamas, inched her way into the kitchen. Her red-blond hair was a disaster, her pixie-like face pulled into a pained expression worthy of an Oscar. “I don’t feel good.”
“What’s wrong?” Jenna said, though she suspected it was nothing. This was one of her twelve-year-old’s favorite tricks these days. Allie had never liked school, still didn’t. She was smart, but one of those kids who was a dreamer, the proverbial square peg that could no more fit into the round hole of student life than fly to the moon. But she had to try.
“Sore throat,” Allie complained, doing her best to look miserable.
“Let me see.”
Obediently, Allie opened her mouth and Jenna peered down what appeared to be a perfectly healthy throat. “Looks okay to me.”
“But it hurts,” Allie whined pathetically.
“It’ll get better. Eat some brea
kfast.”
“I can’t.” She slumped into a chair and folded her arms over the table, burying her head in the crook of one elbow. “Dad wouldn’t make me go to school if I was sick.”
Neither would I, Jenna thought, but didn’t take the bait and give a quick retort about Robert Kramer and his less-than-stellar performance as a father. Allie scowled at her mother and determinedly ignored her breakfast.
Perfect. Jenna glanced at the clock. The morning was disintegrating from bad to worse and it wasn’t even eight yet. She hated to think what the rest of the day would bring.
Leaving the girls at the table, she tried the faucets in the rest of the house and realized that Cassie was right. Water was nonexistent. By the time she reached the kitchen, Allie had come to life, and, ignoring the English muffin Jenna had toasted, had found a box of frozen waffles and dropped two into the toaster. Apparently her sore throat hadn’t gotten the better of her appetite.
Cassie, finishing her juice, was staring at the television. On the screen a woman reporter was standing in the darkened woods somewhere, in front of a crime scene if the yellow tape could be believed.
“What’s this?” Jenna asked.
“They found some woman up at Catwalk Point,” Cassie said, her gaze transfixed on the television. “I heard it on the radio.”
“Who is it?”
“They’re not saying.”
As if to answer Jenna’s question, the perky, red-haired reporter, wearing a coat and scarf, was saying, “…no word yet from the sheriff’s department as to the identity of the woman who was found yesterday morning by Charley Perry, a man who lives not far from the crime scene.” The screen flashed to an elderly man whom Jenna thought she’d seen in the local café, though she’d never met him. He was talking about discovering the body while hunting.
“Catwalk Point isn’t very far from here,” Allie said as her waffle popped up and she slid it onto the plate with her muffin. “That’s kinda creepy.”
“Real creepy,” Jenna said, then changed her tune quickly. “The police are handling it. No need to worry.”
Cassie sighed loudly, as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Allie found the syrup bottle and squeezed a puddle large enough to cover ten pancakes. Her two small waffles were saturated and then some.
Jenna didn’t comment. She was too busy staring at the small screen, watching as the image changed and the reporter was talking to Sheriff Carter, a tall, broad-shouldered man who dwarfed the woman. “It’s too early to determine the cause of death,” he was saying cautiously, his voice having the hint of a drawl. He was a rugged-looking man with chiseled features, suspicious deep-set eyes, and a dark brush moustache. His hair was straight, coffee-brown, and trimmed neatly. “We’re still trying to identify the body.”
“Are you treating this as a murder investigation?”
“We’re leaving our options open. It’s still too early to tell,” he said firmly, ending the taped interview.
“Thank you, Sheriff Carter,” the reporter said, rotating to face the camera again. “Karen Tyler reporting from Catwalk Point.” The screen flipped to the anchor desk, where a clean-shaven man with receding hair said, “Thank you, Karen,” then, with a smile, turned to the sports report.