Kath laughs. “Store-bought pies are my favorite.”
I’m about to ask her if she wants to grab a coffee before heading home when my phone rings. It’s Harry. Probably wanting lunch.
“Hey, Harry. What’s up?”
“Are you on your way home?” His voice is tight, and I hear a noise in the background.
“Not yet. What’s wrong?” I ask, frowning.
“Um…”
My spine tingles, and I’m on full alert. “Harry, is everyone okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah. We’re all good. It’s just the kitchen—”
“What’s going on in the kitchen?” The noise in the background gets louder. It’s like… arushing.“Are you washing clothes?”
“No, there’s a leak,” Harry says.
“What?!”
Kath’s eyes go wide at my shriek, but I’m on a mission. Purse. Keys.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” she asks, following me to the back office.
“What’s leaking?” I ask Harry at the same time.
“Um… I think it’s the pipe where the dishwasher used to be?”
I grab my purse and keys from my locker and head for the back exit. I throw a desperate glance over my shoulder. “Kath, I gotta go. Can you lock up?”
But she’s already fanning me away, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Go. Go. Don’t even worry about it.”
And then I’m out the door, sprinting to the Infiniti. “Is there a shut off valve?” I climb in, throw my purse on the seat and punch the ignition button. The car revs to life andping… ping… pings, patient but insistent that I put on my seatbelt, even though I’m already backing out of my parking spot, sending gravel flying.
“I don’t know.” Harry’s voice comes through the car’s speakers, and I ditch my phone in favor of the seat belt. Chemin Metairie Road is clear, but I hesitate at the stop sign anyway. There is no fast route home. All three ways I could go will take at least twenty minutes.
“Shit.” I make a left, opting for Ambassador Caffery Parkway, judging it’s the route where I’m least likely to get a speeding ticket. “Harry, you have to look. Go up to the wall. Look for a little knob or a lever to turn.”
Through the speakers, the sound of water gets louder, like I’m driving through a car wash. I press the gas, picturing this geyser flooding the kitchen.
“Harry? Tell me what’s going on,” I prompt.
“Um…”
“Words, Harry. I need words.” Why isn’t he saying anything? What is it with teenage boys? When he was ten, he’d never shut up. Now, he only talks to complain or ask for food.
“I don’t see anything.”
“Shit.” I take the forced right and get over to make the U-turn to head north again. The main shut off is outside in the front yard somewhere. But I’ve never had to find it. “Where’s Mattie?”
“She’s…”
I pound the steering wheel, biting down on my full repertoire of curse words. “Harry,” I growl through gritted teeth, swinging into the northbound lane and gunning the accelerator. “Where’s Mattie?”
“She’s talking to Emmett, geez,” he says, clearly affronted. “You sound demonic.”
“Because you’re not communicating. Tell Mattie to grab a bath towel, wrap it around the pipe, and put pressure on the leak while you go outside and look for the shut off.”
