Samantha Sanderson at the Movies by Robin Caroll

Author:Robin Caroll
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: ebook
Publisher: Zonderkidz
Published: 2014-02-28T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 13

TO WRITE A WRONG

Dad?” Sam called out as she stepped from the kitchen. He’d come home, dropped his keys in the wooden bowl in the entry, then headed to his room just like always. But that was fifteen minutes ago. It never took him this long to lock up his gun.

She moved slowly toward the hallway. “Daddy?”

“I’m here.” He shut his bedroom door behind him and gave her a quick hug. “Dinner about ready?” He led the way to the kitchen.

He might force a lighter tone into his voice, but Sam could hear the stress. Even if she couldn’t, there was no way she could miss the deepness of the lines in his face which hadn’t been quite so visible this morning.

“Yeah, I just took the casserole out of the oven.”

“Good. I’m hungry.” He cut the casserole and placed pieces of the chicken cacciatore on the two plates beside the helpings of sweet peas.

Sam set the rolls on the table, then put glasses of milk on the placemats before sitting across the table from him.

“It looks and smells great. Thank you. Do you want to offer grace over the food tonight?” he asked.

“Sure.” Odd, because Dad always said the blessing. She closed her eyes. “Father, thank you for this meal before us. Please use it to nourish our bodies, and our bodies to honor You. In Jesus’ name we pray and give thanks, Amen.”

“Amen. Thank you.” Dad shoved a forkful of peas into his mouth and chewed with vigor.

She set down her fork. “Dad, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just hungry, like I said.” He took a bite of casserole this time, still chewing almost in double time.

She stabbed peas off her own plate. If he wanted to be über polite like this, fine. Just fine. She chewed without tasting.

For the next several minutes, the only sound in the kitchen was of silverware scraping against glass and the gulping of milk. Even Chewy lay on the rug by the door, her head resting on her paws as she stared at her owners as if to ask what was going on.

As if Sam had any more clue than her dog.

Ten more minutes and Sam couldn’t take any more of the silent treatment or false pleasantries. “Dad, did you see the comment Jessica Townsend left on my post on the paper’s blog?”

He wiped his mouth with his napkin, then slowly wadded it up and set it on his empty plate. “I did.”

She waited . . .

Five seconds.

Ten seconds.

Thirty.

“And?” she asked. “What did you think?”

“I think Ms. Townsend still suffers from some mental issues.” He ran a finger along the edge of his plate. “That is off the record.”

The back of her neck went hot. “I know that.”

“Good.” He took his plate to the sink, threw away the napkin, rinsed his plate, fork, and glass, and then put them in the dishwasher.

Sam followed, doing the same, while he covered the other part of the casserole and put it in the refrigerator.

He wiped the counter without a word.

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