Secrets in the Attic (Secrets 1)

"Of course, but how can you stay up here by yourself so long and be so quiet no one will know?"

"I can do it. I've actually got it easier than Anne Frank I can leave the attic sometimes, most of the time, thanks to both your parents working. I could go out when no one is here and get some air. You and I are practically the same size. I can wear some of your things, use some of your things. When no one is here, I'll shower and bathe in your bathroom. It will be okay. At least, until we come up with a better plan:' she said.

"Everyone is looking for you. They'll probably make up those wanted posters with your face on them and put them in post offices."

"I know. That's what makes this so smart," she said, holding her hands out and looking around the attic. "It's big. I have a place to sleep. I'll be fine for a while. As long as you want to help me, that is."

"I want to help you. Of course, I want to help you."

"So? Just now, neither you nor your mother knew. I was here until I decided to let you know, right? We can do this. You'll see. It will be a lot easier than you think, and besides, I'll be the one who's doing any sort of suffering, not you."

"Don't you want to talk to your mother, ask her to help you?"

Her face turned hard, her eyes as dead as marbles. "She didn't help me when I needed her the most. All she's doing right now is mourning what she lost, the life she lost, but she'll find a way to fix it without me, believe me." She looked away a moment and then turned back to me. "I always believed she drove my father to his death. I never told you the things I remembered about them, how my mother aggravated him about our not having enough money, how she belittled him and tried to get me to think less of him."

"No, you never said anything about that," I said, now amazed and shocked at her new revelations. It was truly as if what had happened, what she had done, had stripped away any pretense. Nothing could be hidden from me any longer, no matter how terrible it was.

"Yes, well, besides it being so painful to think about, I was ashamed of it as well. My mother is . . . what's the word . . . an exploiter. She knows how to milk everything to her own advantage. She's actually the most selfish person I know. Her favorite words are me, myself, and I.

I hated hearing her talk about her own mother that way. It brought tears to my eyes, for I could never in a million years imagine myself talking like that about my mother.

"You'll see," she continued. "After a while, it will be like I never existed. Oh, she'll put on a good act in the beginning. She's probably at home right now, bawling her eyes out for the police and friends, accepting sympathy like some pauper on the street filling her hands with charity. I'm sure it's already 'poor Darlene, poor, poor Darlene' First she loses a young husband to a freaky heart attack, and then she loses her new wonderful provider to the evil and viciousness of a self-centered, miserable daughter who never showed any appreciation for her wonderful gifts and loving stepfather. I could write the gossip and hand it out for the people of this village to recite," she said bitterly. "You know I could, and you know in your heart that I'm right about all of it."

I took a deep breath. Yes, everything she was saying was surely true, I thought.

"Look," she said reaching for my hand. "You're going to be questioned by the police. You were practically the only friend I had at school, and we spent so much time together. You better practice in front of a mirror or in front of me, so you don't give anything away or break down."

I shook my head. Just the thought of such a thing put the tremors in me.

"Are you sure the police will be asking me questions?"

"Yes, Zipporah. Be real. We couldn't be closer friends, could we? All right," she said, letting go of my hand and standing. She walked about for a few moments with her hands behind her and then turned and glared down at me. "Zipporah, when was the last time you saw Karen Stoker?"

"The last time?"

"Don't repeat the questions. It looks like you're trying to come up with a lie. Just answer them. When was the last time?"

"Um . . . when I was over at your house talking about the short story and . . ."

"Oh, Zipporah. Are you crazy? Think before you speak." She walked over to a table and picked up the book of short stories. "I had the sense to bring this back to you for you to put back on the bookshelves. No one must ever know we read and used the story in here. If anything makes you an accomplice to all this, it's the book. See? Even in my most dreadful moment, I was thinking more of you."

She tossed it into my lap.

"Let's return to the question. When did you last see Karen Stoker?"

I took a breath, looked down at the book and then up at her. "At her house, when I went over to do homework with her."

"Good. And at that time or any time before, did she indicate or say anything

about wanting to hurt her stepfather? Well?"

"No, nothing," I said quickly.

"Nothing? Not even a wishful thought?"

"She . . ."

"Yes?"