Page 11 of Our Little Secret
“You know him?”
“Kinda. He’s in my first period. Algebra II.”
“What’s his name?”
“Not important, Mom.” Then she turned her head to stare out the side window as Brooke drove out of the lot and through the shaded side streets of the Queen Anne neighborhood.
“I just—”
“Just what?” Marilee’s head spun around so fast her ponytail swung wildly. She glared at her mother. “Just want to tell me why you’re always late? Why I’m the only one waiting for my mommy like a toddler or . . . or . . . a dork? Or why someone else’s mom has to pick me up and drop me off?” Her lips were a flat line, anger snapping in her blue eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“It won’t—”
“Happen again? Is that what you were going to say?”
“Marilee—”
“Don’t, Mom. Just . . . don’t.” She held up a hand. “Just drive, okay?”
“Look, I said I’m sorry,” Brooke said, determined not to be cut off. “And I am, but I’m not crazy about your attitude.”
“And I’m not crazy about yours.” Marilee let out a long, agonized groan as Brooke turned onto the narrow street and spied the house she’d called home for nearly fourteen years, almost all of Marilee’s life.
Over a hundred years old, the house was built of shingles and stone. It was unique, with its rounded turret and arched front porch. From this angle the Victorian home appeared to be two stories, though there was a basement beneath the upper floors that housed the garage, with the laundry room halfway up the stairs. A second staircase ran up the back of the house. Narrow, dark, and not too steady, that staircase was never used. Neal called it the “fire escape” and always talked of repairing or replacing it “someday.”
So far, it hadn’t happened.
The rest of the house had been renovated over the years, modern conveniences added, along with a wide deck off the kitchen. There was a dishwasher and a gas stove, along with tile updates in the kitchen and bathrooms. The wood floors refinished and polished. But the house itself still held on to its pre-turn-of-the-last-century charm, evident in the carved banisters and claw-foot tubs fitted with a free-standing shower rod and fixtures.
Brooke and Neal had purchased the home over thirteen years earlier, when Marilee, in a yellow onesie, was strapped to Neal in a front pack.
From the moment Brooke crossed the threshold that very first time, she’d felt as if she were home. Finally home.
Buying the house had been a stretch, but both she and Neal had decided it was worth it. Who could resist the coved ceilings, wainscoting, and mullioned windows with views of the city lights? They’d walked through the arched doorways and fallen in love with the house and each other all over again.
Baby Marilee, of course, was unaware of the huge decision her parents were wrestling with.
And it had all worked out, for the most part.
Well, until recently.
She glanced at her daughter. “Let’s not fight. Okay? I said I’m sorry.”
Finally cooling off a bit, Marilee sighed and gave an exaggerated roll of her eyes. “Okay.” A pause. “Okay, okay, apology accepted.”
“Good.” Brooke drove down the steep slope of the driveway and cranked on the steering wheel as she hit the remote to open the garage door. “We can try to be nice to each other.” The door rolled open with a clang and a groan and she pulled inside, parking next to Neal’s Range Rover.
Marilee sent her mother a pained look, then a small smile started to play across her lips. “I’lltry.”
“Me too.”
Her daughter was reaching for the door handle.
Brooke caught her arm. “I heard that Allison Carelli is missing.”
