I pictured Patch's mischievous smile. 'Were you ever scared of Dad?'
'Whenever the New England Patriots lost.'
Whenever the Patriots lost, my dad went to the garage and revved up his chainsaw. Two autumns ago he hauled the chain-saw to the woods behind our property, felled ten trees, and diced them into firewood. We still have more than half the pile to burn through.
Mom patted the sofa beside her, and I curled up against her, resting my head on her shoulder. 'I miss him,' I said.
'Me too.'
'I'm afraid I'll forget what he looked like. Not in pictures, but hanging around on a Saturday morning in sweats, making scrambled eggs.'
Mom laced her fingers through mine. 'You've always been so much like him, right from the start.'
'Really?' I sat up. 'In what way?'
'He was a good student, very clever. He wasn't flashy or outspoken, but people respected him.'
'Was Dad ever… mysterious?'
Mom seemed to turn this over in her mind. 'Mysterious people have a lot of secrets. Your father was very open.'
'Was he ever rebellious?'
She gave a short, startled laugh. 'Did you see him that way? Harrison Grey, the world's most ethical accountant… rebellious?' She gave a theatrical gasp. 'Heaven forbid! He did wear his hair long for a while. It was wavy and blond-like a surfer's. Of course, his horn-rimmed glasses killed the look. So… do I dare ask what got us on this subject?'
I had no idea how to explain my conflicting feelings for Patch to my mom. I had no idea how to explain Patch, period. My mom was probably expecting a description that included his parents' names, his GPA, the varsity sports he played, and which colleges he planned on applying to. I didn't want to alarm her by saying I was willing to bet my piggy bank that Patch had a rap sheet. 'There's this guy,' I said, unable to hold back a smile at the thought of Patch. 'We've been hanging out lately. Mostly school stuff.'
'Ooh, a boy,' she said mysteriously. 'Well? Is he in the Chess Club? Student Council? The tennis team?'
'He likes pool,' I offered optimistically.
'A swimmer! Is he as cute as Michael Phelps? Of course, I always leaned toward Ryan Lochte when it came to appearances.'
I thought about correcting my mom. On second thought, it was probably best not to clarify. Pool, swimming… close enough, right?
The phone rang and Mom stretched across the sofa to answer it. Ten seconds into the call she flopped back against the sofa and slapped a hand to her forehead. 'No, it's not a problem. I'll run over, pick it up, and bring it by first thing tomorrow morning.'
'Hugo?' I asked after she hung up. Hugo was my mom's boss, and to say he called all the time was putting it mildly. Once, he'd called her into work on a Sunday because he couldn't figure out how to operate the copy machine.
'He left some unfinished paperwork in the office and needs me to run over. I have to make copies, but I shouldn't be gone more than an hour. Have you finished your homework?'
'Not yet.'
'Then I'll tell myself we couldn't have spent time together even if I was here.' She sighed and rose to her feet. 'See you in an hour?'
'Tell Hugo he should pay you more.'
She laughed. '-4 lot more.'
As soon as I had the house to myself, I cleared the breakfast dishes off the kitchen table and made room for my textbooks. English, world history, biology. Arming myself with a brand-new number two pencil, I flipped open the top book and went to work.
Fifteen minutes later my mind rebelled, refusing to digest another paragraph on European feudal systems. I wondered what Patch was doing after he got off work. Homework? Hard to believe. Eating pizza and watching basketball on TV? Maybe, but it didn't feel right. Placing bets and playing pool at Bo's Arcade? It seemed like a good guess.
I had the unexplainable desire to drive to Bo's and defend my earlier behavior, but the thought was quickly put into perspective by the simple fact that I didn't have time. My mom would be home in less time than it took to make the half-hour drive there. Not to mention, Patch wasn't the kind of guy I could just go hunt down. In the past, our meetings had operated on his schedule, not mine. Always.
I climbed the stairs to change into something comfy. I pushed on my bedroom door and took three steps inside before stopping short. My dresser drawers were yanked out, clothes strewn across the floor. The bed was ripped apart. The closet doors were open, hanging askew by their hinges. Books and picture frames littered the floor.
I saw the reflection of movement in the window across the room and swung around. He stood against the wall behind me, dressed head to toe in black and wearing the ski mask. My brain was in a swirling fog, just beginning to transmit run! to my legs, when he lunged for the window, threw it open, and ducked lithely out.
I took the stairs down three at a time. I flung myself around the banister, flew down the hall to the kitchen, and dialed 911.
Fifteen minutes later a patrol car bumped into the driveway. Shaking, I unbolted the door and let the two officers in. The first officer to step inside was short and thick-waisted with salt-and-pepper hair. The other was tall and lean with hair almost as dark as Patch's, but cropped above his ears. In a strange way, he vaguely resembled Patch. Mediterranean complexion, symmetrical face, eyes with an edge.
They introduced themselves; the dark-haired officer was Detective Basso. His partner was Detective Holstijic.
'Are you Nora Grey?' Detective Holstijic asked.
I nodded.
'Your parents home?'
'My mom left a few minutes before I called 911.'
'So you're home alone?'
Another nod.
'Why don't you tell us what happened?' he asked, crossing his arms and planting his feet wide, while Detective Basso walked a few paces inside the house and took a look around.
'I came home at eight and did some homework,' I said. 'When I went up to my bedroom, I saw him. Everything was a mess. He tore my room apart.'
'Did you recognize him?'
'He was wearing a ski mask. And the lights were off.'
'Any distinguishing marks? Tattoos?'
'No.'
'Height? Weight?'
I delved reluctantly into my short-term memory. I didn't want to relive the moment, but it was important that I recall any clues. 'Average weight, but a little on the tall side. About the same size as Detective Basso.'
'Did he say anything?'
I shook my head.
Detective Basso reappeared and said, 'All clear,' to his partner. Then he climbed to the second floor. The floorboards creaked overhead as he moved down the hall, opening and shutting doors.
Detective Holstijic cracked the front door and squatted to examine the deadbolt. 'Was the door unlocked or damaged when you came home?'
'No. I used my key to get in. My mom was asleep in the living room.'
Detective Basso appeared at the top of the stairs.
'Can you show us what's damaged?' he asked me.
Detective Holstijic and I climbed the stairs together, and I led the way down the hall to where Detective Basso stood just inside my bedroom door with his hands on his hips, surveying my room.
