“Just reading.”
She pushed the door open, easing another step forward. “Do you want to come back downstairs? We have company.”
My spine pulled straight as I dropped my book into my lap. “We do?”
“Graham from next door needs a place to stay.” Unsure how it was even possible for her voice to lower even more, I leaned forward to hear her. “He’s going to be here just for tonight.”
A sarcastic chuckle leaked out of my mouth. “Isn’t he old enough not to need a babysitter?”
Her eyes layered with caution as she stole a glance down the stairs. She must have been satisfied with what she saw because she crossed the room and sat next to me on my bed. “I’m not sure how much to say, because it’s a sensitive situation, but he’s been in some trouble. And his—”
“Right,” I quipped, remembering Graham had told me that.
“He’s under probation and isn’t supposed to stay alone for days like he has been, but his social worker can’t find a place for him to stay.”
One of my brows hiked when I asked, “What did he do?”
Her lips pulled tight into a straight line, and her eyes gently traced my face. I soaked up the silence, aware of how secretive my mom was being. We had never been the mother-daughter duo who talked about stuff, but I could tell she was holding back.
“Mom, just spit it out. Is he a giant psycho?”
“There are protective measures in place for juveniles, and I agree with them. He doesn’t need everyone to know his private life. I would rather not say anything, but no, he isn’t crazy. He’s had a very tough life, and because of that, he was put in some difficult situations—”
“What are you saying?” She was feeding me a bunch of baloney.
“I’m saying, we will all respect his privacy. He’s going through some rough stuff, and he doesn’t have anyone to help him. He has a social worker, but she is failing to find placement for him since he can’t share a home with other foster children because he has a criminal record—”
“Criminal?” I blurted out. “This doesn’t even sound like you. Why would you let him come here?”
“He’s Bertha’s grandson.” She nodded curtly at me, like it hurt for her to answer more questions. “She’s worried. She’s all he has right now. It’s a huge mess because she is temporarily disabled. And, I think we can be nice to him for one night.”
I stilled my face into a flat expression. “And by that, you mean don’t ask questions but come downstairs and hang out?”
She slid off the bed, lingering her gaze on me until I followed her. I didn’t mind hanging out with him. Actually, he was the best friend I’d ever had, but the way my parents were acting made me insanely curious.
Curious and a little afraid.
Mom led the way downstairs into the family room, where I expected my perfect-hostess mom to have spread out board games and other entertainment options, but my dad had different ideas. Dad sat in front of the coffee table with his taxidermy project laid out in front of him on a sheet. My mom’s breath caught loudly in her throat. “Ron, do you really think you need to do that now while we have company?” Her eyes drifted to Graham, who sat opposite him on the same sofa.
“He doesn’t mind.” Dad kept his eyes low on a flattened squirrel he methodically rolled in his hand, reminding me of how those dads on TV shows cleaned a shotgun on the porch when their daughters got picked up for a date. Dad never did his taxidermy on the living room coffee table. This was obviously some sort of warning sign for Graham because he was a boy, and he was in my house. My face heated as I backed against the wall.
“The trick to getting a realistic animal is to hide the incision.” My dad was obviously speaking to Graham but kept his eyes low on his squirrel. Graham had his hands stuffed in his sweatshirt pockets, avoiding looking directly at the dead squirrel. My dad continued his creepy tutorial. “I like to start by placing a tiny slitin the throat and slice them all the way through because that is an easy spot to hide an incision.”
Cringing so hard, I begged Mom with my look to stop Dad, but she appeared as nervous as I felt. We squinted through narrowed eyes and watched as my dad deliberately—excruciatingly slowly—slit the throat of the squirrel and then proceeded to cut down the length of the body. I turned my head, feeling sick. “Dad, this is disgusting. Can’t you take it to the garage?”
“Well, I could, but I thought it was a nice way for Graham and me to get to know each other.”
I peered at my mom, who was still avoiding the squirrel too. “If this is about Graham, may I please be excused?”
Her eyes washed over my dad. When he said nothing, my mom replied, “Why don’t you and I go into the kitchen and make us all a snack?”
“Deal.” I was out of the room before my mom could even stand. When my mom joined me in the kitchen, I harshly whispered to her, “What is Dad doing?”
She pressed her lips together for a moment. “He’s a little apprehensive about Graham being here…with you.”
Feeling defensive that his actions had anything to do with me, I flattened my palm on my chest. “Me?”
She raised one shoulder as if she was trying to brush any concern away. I didn’t buy it because I could see the jitters in her fingers. “You know, dads and their daughters.”
