Deeper Than the Dead

79

Dennis lay on the cot that had been brought into the room. The detectives had brought him a TV to watch and some pizza and soda, but he didn’t want to watch TV, and he wasn’t hungry. Some ugly fat cowgirl deputy was supposed to be watching him, but she was sitting at the table reading a book, and she hardly ever looked at him.

All Dennis really wanted was to go home. Miss Navarre had said he wouldn’t be going home. But what did she know? She didn’t work for the sheriff. His dad worked for the sheriff. His dad would get him out.

But he had only seen his dad through the glass in the door. His dad hadn’t come in to talk to him or to yell at him or anything. He had only looked in the window the one time, and he hadn’t come back.

Maybe he never would.

Not for the first time, Dennis wondered what it would be like to be a part of real family like the ones on TV. Like Wendy Morgan’s and Tommy Crane’s.

He had always hated Tommy Crane. Tommy Crane had everything. Tommy Crane was smart. Tommy Crane was talented. Tommy Crane had cool parents who gave him everything he wanted.

He had always hated Tommy Crane, but as he lay on his cot in a room in the sheriff’s office with no one caring about him and no one coming to see if he was all right, Dennis thought it would be pretty darn good to be Tommy Crane tonight.

Tommy’s bedtime ritual went the way it had every other night in the past week. His mother—still in a terrible mood—made him take his allergy medicine. He had then run into his bathroom and thrown it back up.

He was mad at her now. Even though he had vowed she wouldn’t ruin his perfect evening with his father, she had. His mother always had to be the center of attention, and she managed that any way she could. Usually by yelling.

Tommy was tired of it. Why couldn’t his mother be somebody else? Or why couldn’t it be just him and his dad? Sometimes he secretly wished they would get divorced, but then he always got afraid that he would have to stay with his mother instead of his dad.

They were arguing now. Tommy crept down the hall as far as he dared and tried to listen. He couldn’t make out most of what they were saying on account of they had gone into their bedroom at the far end of the hall and shut the door.

Every once in a while a word stood out. His name. Why would you . . . ? How could you . . . ? Anne Navarre . . .

Tommy felt sick in his stomach in a way that had nothing to do with his allergy medicine. He didn’t want to be the problem. Tears filled up his eyes, and he hurried back down the hall to his own room.

He didn’t have to listen, anyway. He knew what would happen. His dad would get fed up with fighting, and he would leave and not come back for hours.

Only this time he wouldn’t be going alone.