Page 75 of Bad Intentions

“K? K?” That’s Mrs. Snickett.

“K? Are you all right?” the chief says louder.

There’s the sound of them scrambling, and I can’t hide any longer. I swing the door open and rush into the kitchen.

Mrs. Snickett is already by my grandma’s side, stroking her shoulder. The chief is rubbing his beard, his eyes worried as he catches sight of me.

Grandma’s hands cover her face, and she’s sniffling. My heart tightens—I’ve never seen Grandma cry.

40

JOSIE

“Grams? What’s going on?”

Grandma hurriedly wipes her cheeks with her fingers. “Nothing, sweetheart. Didn’t hear you come in.”

Mrs. Snickett, with her usual resting drill-sergeant face, gives me an unfriendly glance. “Hard to hear someone eavesdropping behind the door.”

The chief walks up and pats me on the shoulder. “How are you?” Without waiting for a reply, he walks out.

“What’s going on?” I ask both Grandma and Mrs. Snickett.

“Nothing,” Mrs. Snickett answers as Grandma stares at her hands. “Why don’t you give us a minute?”

“I’ll be in my room.”

“No, kiddo. We need a moment alone.”

Seriously? She is kicking me out of my house? Grandma still won’t look at me, while Mrs. Snickett calmly stares me down.

“Sure,” I say, grabbing my purse from the counter and tightly holding on to it and my irritation as I stomp out.

When I get back to Rika’s car, she searches my face like I’m supposed to tell her where the body is. “And?”

I tell her what I heard, the end of the conversation, and my grandmother bawling in front of everyone—for the first time in decades.

“I’m sure she didn’t shed a tear even when she found out about her cancer,” I say. “But she didn’t say a word when your nana kicked me out of the house.”

Rika laughs, turning on the engine. “Let’s grab lunch.”

“Yeah. I need something. A drink this time. Or two.”

“Listen, you have to be patient. Things will either settle or…”

She doesn’t finish the sentence. “Or?”

“Or not settle,” she states.

“Brilliant.”

She does a little half bow at the wheel. “I know, Boots. That’s me.”

Every day is another secret, and I’m mulling over what I heard in the kitchen all the way to the hoagie shop.

“I think there’s a very high probability that the kidnapper is my father,” I say as we eat lunch.

“Anyone who’s ever read the court transcripts of the trial knew there was a high probability of that. And he might not be a kidnapper. Clearly, someone else is involved, since he’s dead now.”