A Touch of Happy by Andrew Kanago

Author:Andrew Kanago [Kanago, Andrew]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HellBound Books Publishing LLC
Published: 2019-12-06T08:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty

Sunday, October 23, 2016

S tacy cooked with a vengeance, as usual, wearing an apron that said “Kiss the Chef”. She cut the onions like they had tried to kidnap her dog. As she did, Mark’s sister muttered a torrent of curse words, a stream of invective that swam under the chopping sounds to fill the entire house in a miasma of stink.

From the kitchen doorway, Mark watched his sister pensively. One arm crossed around his waist, the other by his chin, his finger rubbing his lips. “Would you prefer I call Bill and tell him not to come?” he asked.

The onion massacre held for brief ceasefire, and Stacy turned around. Waving the knife in the air, she said, “No. I actually want to see your ‘friend’. We have a few things to discuss.” Stacy used air quotes around the last word. “I’d like to ask him a few questions. Number one, is that lunatic Vandergeest alive and killing again? Number two, what is the FBI doing to stop him? Number three, does Vandergeest know about you?”

“Hey, sis,” Mark began.

But Stacy waved the knife in front of her. “Don’t ‘Hey, sis’ me. Two girls are murdered in the manner of Eric Vandergeest. Then Frodo gets killed. Pardon me for thinking it seems like more than coincidence. Man, that was an amazing cat. Also, and I’m wondering this, is Bill going to drag your ass out to the murder sites to help the FBI find Vandergeest? Again? You said you were done, Mark.”

“I am.” Mark gave a half-shrug. “Bill is my friend, Stacy. And never, not once, has he ever forced me to do anything. I’ve always volunteered.”

Stacy made a ‘hmm’ kind of noise and dumped the onions, garlic, and peppers into the hot pan. The food whistled, fizzed, and popped. “Yeah, and holding the objects of murder victims, seeing all the shit that you’ve seen. No effect on you at all, right?”

At the counter, buttering the bread, Skylar shot Mark a glance of some kind.

Rather than answering, Mark took a second to sniff the air. He loved the smell of onions, peppers, and garlic frying. Their combined odors melted with that of the meatballs in the oven. He heard his mom’s step, the familiar creek from the living room floor, and felt his mom’s hand rest for a second on his upper arm, which caused him to jump almost imperceptibly.

“You two fighting?” Mom asked. She’d been in the bathroom, again. The second time in the half-hour Mark had been there. Mom looked at him, a swirl of emotions crossing her face. Foremost among them was concern.

“Your daughter is not very happy with me at the moment,” Mark said. In childhood, Mark and Stacy developed a habit of saying “your child” whenever the other kid had done something bad. “Your child ate all the Oreos,” your child didn’t wash his hands after he used the bathroom.”

“She does seem a bit upset.” Mom did not sound particularly displeased; in fact, she sounded as distracted as she usually did.

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