Read Page 37

I LEAVE JASON AT THE COFFEEHOUSE. HE'S FINALLY started in on the scone, his demeanor calm, almost detached. Not normal for a kid who spent the last hour discussing who could have killed his father.

And yet, how should he be acting? He's doing what I'd do in the same situation. Especially if I suspected my stepmother had engineered my dad's death.Advertisement

I'm hardly normal, though, am I? Probably not a good idea to compare what I'd do in any situation.

Maybe his detachment can be credited to shock. Jason has had a rough couple of days. It could also be something more sinister. I don't want to believe it, but I know it's possible that Jason had a hand in whatever happened to his dad. He stood to lose as much as his stepmother if his father was indeed in trouble with the law. If that's true, going to the house this afternoon could be risky. Could even be a setup, a trap to make Gloria look guiltier. I can see the headline now: Gloria Estrella's friend caught breaking into O'Sullivan home.

Well, nothing to do but take the chance. I have no other leads. Now the quest becomes to discover what kind of trouble his dad was in.

I know who might be able to help me.

The question is, after last night, am I ready?

Gordon throws me a parting invitation to come again when we can talk and then I'm back in my car, wondering if I have the courage to face my family and knowing I have no choice. Reluctantly, I crank over the engine and head for La Mesa.

SUNDAY MORNING USED TO BE SPECIAL IN THE Strong household. When I was a kid, we'd go to early Mass at St. John's in Lemon Grove, pick up donuts at the parish hall after and head for home. Steve and I always managed to wolf down a donut or two on the way, even though we knew we were supposed to wait until after we had a "good" breakfast of pancakes or eggs or French toast. We'd sit in the backseat trying to be sneaky, giggling at how we were fooling our parents even though we knew the three feet separating us in the backseat was hardly distance enough to muffle the sound of the paper bag rustling or our greedy chomping on hot, jelly-filled donuts. Mom and Dad always let us get away with it. Never mentioned the jelly stains or powdered-sugar mustaches.

Steve went away to college. Mom, Dad and I still went to church, but it wasn't nearly as much fun sitting in the backseat alone with that greasy bag. I waited until we got home and proper breakfast was consumed before nibbling on a plain cake donut.

Then Steve got killed.

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We stopped going to church. We no longer ate donuts over the Sunday paper. It became another morning to get through, prelude to another day without Steve. Another day without warmth, without joy.

Over time, things returned to a kind of normalcy. Dad went back to his job, Mom went back to work, and I went back to school. There was a gaping hole in our lives, but to their credit, my parents rallied. For my benefit, I know. I'll always be grateful to them for that.

Some things, however, were not as before. After the funeral, we never went back to St. John's. The parish priest tried many times to coax my folks back, but the answer was always the same. Like Steve, God vanished from our lives. Utterly and completely.

I missed Steve much more than I ever missed God.

Now, approaching the house, I'm haunted by the past and nervous at what awaits me. My mother was so angry with me. Will she still be? Will Trish? Will they forgive me for ruining their evening?

I never should have left them last night. The meeting with Sandra was a disaster, accomplishing nothing except making me feel like a fool this morning. I don't know what happened. I don't care. I only know the spell is broken, not in the way I'd planned, but broken all the same. I'll never step foot in Avery's house again.

By the time I pull up in my parents' driveway, I've worked myself into such a state of anxiety, I debate the wisdom of coming here at all. In fact, when I go up to the front door and let myself in and find that they're not at home, I wilt in relief. I scribble a note to let them know that I was here, then beat it back out to my car.

I did what I promised last night. I came over. As far as I'm concerned, the ball is now in their court.

I'll call Dad tomorrow at his office and ask him if he'd heard about Rory O'Sullivan being in trouble. He's an investment banker. He knows the dirt.

Relief that I don't have to face my mother is tempered by unhappiness that I won't see Trish. I scared her last night. Made her afraid the bubble of happiness she'd been so carefully constructing was about to burst.

And for what? Sexual delusions about a woman who is obviously psychotic.

Good job, Anna.

I almost make a clean getaway. I've got the Jag turned around in the driveway and am halfway to the road when my folks come back. If they'd been thirty seconds later, I would have made it.

Shit.

I put a smile on my face and the Jag in reverse, and back up the driveway. Mom and Dad pull up front and park beside me. Trish opens the rear passenger door and jumps out, a relieved smile brightening her face.

"I'm so glad you're here," she says. She lofts something for me to see. "We bought donuts after Mass. They're still hot. You're just in time."

She lifts a brown paper bag. pqdm.com