U Is for Undertow (Kinsey Millhone 21)

She tilted her forehead against the steering wheel, wondering if there was still time to escape. As long as they hadn’t spotted her, she could turn the car around, fetch Rain from her playdate, check into a motel, and then let Patrick know where they were. She and Annabelle had talked about this at length, the possibility that the three of them would make another appearance one day. She’d been a complete wuss where Shelly was concerned. Looking back, she couldn’t believe she’d allowed herself to be so mistreated. How had Shelly managed to intimidate her? Shelly was a pipsqueak, a twerp. She was half Deborah’s age. Deborah knew a hell of a lot more about how the world worked than Shelly had ever dreamed. If Deborah didn’t face the girl now, she was only postponing the inevitable.

She took a deep breath. She had to do this or she wouldn’t be able to live with herself. She certainly wouldn’t be able to face Annabelle, who’d given her strict instructions. Deborah put her foot on the accelerator and pulled away from the berm, then continued the few hundred feet to the house, where she eased into the garage. She entered the house through the door that opened into the kitchen. Of course, they’d let themselves in. Greg knew where the key was hidden, and even if she and Patrick had been clever enough to move it, he’d have found his way in.

The house had been spotless when she left, less than an hour before, but Greg and Shelly had made themselves at home, unloading backpacks, sleeping bags, and duffels by the door to the dining room. This was territorial marking, like a dog pissing in each corner of the yard. She wasn’t sure why they hadn’t left their stuff in the bus . . . unless they anticipated being houseguests. Oh lord, she thought.

She called, “Greg?”

“Yo!”

She crossed the kitchen and looked into the den where the three of them were sprawled, almost unrecognizable. They looked like ruffians, people who’d wandered in off the street. Greg had a scraggly beard and mustache. Patrick had never been able to grow convincing facial hair and usually ended up looking like someone on a Wanted poster. Greg had inherited the same sparse fuzz. He’d let his hair grow long, dark and frizzy and unkempt. She wondered if he knew how unattractive he looked. Or maybe that was the point.

Shelly was sitting on the floor, leaning against the couch with her bare feet out in front of her while she smoked a cigarette, using one of Deborah’s Limoges saucers for an ashtray. She wore the familiar black turtleneck, torn black tights, and a long skirt. She’d kicked off her Birkenstocks and those lay in the middle of the room. Her earrings were big silver hoops. In the tangled mass of dark hair, she now sported a series of small braids with beads woven into the ends. She was no longer the petite, thin creature she’d been. She had an earthy air about her, the residual weight of two pregnancies having caught up with her.

Most alarming was the boy, Shawn, who was ten years old now, according to Deborah’s calculations. His dark hair was shaggy, worn long enough to brush his shoulders. His cheeks were so gaunt he looked like a young Abraham Lincoln. He had Shelly’s huge hazel eyes set in darkly smudged sockets, which gave his face the solemnity of a lemur’s. He was tall for his age, and very thin. His flannel shirt was pale from wear or too many runs through the washing machine. The cuffs rode above his wrists. His hands were thin and his fingers were long and delicate. His pants hung on him.

He’d found a spot in one corner of the room and he had his nose buried in a copy of Frank Herbert’s Dune. Deborah had read it two years before, when it first came out, and she was surprised that his skills were so proficient. Maybe Shelly’s homeschooling hadn’t been so bad after all. It was possible he was only hiding in the pages, pretending to read so he could observe what was going on without having to participate. He glanced at her once and then went back to his book. She wondered how much he remembered of her hostility toward him when he was a child of six. She’d eventually seen him in a kinder light, but her early disapproval had been savage and must have wounded him. She was ashamed that she’d blamed him for his behavior when Shelly was the one who should have been held accountable.

Greg crossed the room and gave her a bear hug. “Good to see you,” he said. “We were on our way south and thought we’d stop by. I hope you don’t mind.” He was treating their arrival as a common occurrence, like they popped in every week.

When Deborah put her arms around him, tentatively returning his embrace, she could feel his rib cage through the fabric of his shirt. She held herself stiffly, unaccustomed to the display of affection. She didn’t reciprocate his feelings, or what he pretended to feel.