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herself the question at least ten times since McCall had left her. The entire time she'd cleaned up and changed, washing her hair in the sink to avoid getting the bandage on her shoulder wet, she'd cursed herself for her loose tongue. She was a trained professional who knew better than to spill confidential secrets. |
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D.J. frowned and put her ear against the bedroom door. She didn't like this lack of sound and movement. A quick trip to her room and a search of her jewelry case produced the key for the dead-bolt lock on her father's door. While they'd lived here he'd often disappeared into his bedroom with a bottlealways on the same dates each year, which D.J. had finally understood coincided with important days in her mother's life. |
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After the first fearful morning when she couldn't rouse Ed from his drunken sleep, no matter how hard she pounded on the door and screamed, she'd called a locksmith to open the bolt. The man had taken her aside and given her a key for the lock when her father wasn't looking. She could still feel the embarrassment stealing over her at the look of pity in the man's eyes. From then on, whenever too much silence came from her father's locked room, D.J. made use of the key. |
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The dead bolt slid open, and D.J. pushed the door inward a fraction. "McCall?" she whispered. "You all right?" |
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No one answered. D.J. pushed open the door the rest of the way and stepped inside. The breath she'd held in fear that the room would be empty, the window gaping open to reveal McCall's desertion, |
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