Cuckoo by Gretchen Felker-Martin

Author:Gretchen Felker-Martin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags:  
Publisher: Titan Books

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Jo pushed the Glovers’ screen door open, eased it in to rest against her back, and turned the knob of the front door. The living room was empty, the television turned to CBS at a low murmur. Rush Limbaugh’s face danced distorted in the mirror under the stairs, his cheeks reddening as he shook his finger at the camera. Jo guided Brady past her and slipped in herself. Carefully, quietly, she closed first the screen door and then the inner, muting the sound of the sprinklers outside.

It was only a few steps to the study’s door. Jo’s heartbeat thundered in her ears as she crossed the Persian carpet and tried the handle. It opened. Relief washed over her in a pulverizing wave and then she and Brady were inside the little room, Brady shutting the door behind them. The sole window’s curtains were drawn. They were heavy and red and looked almost like they were made of wool. In the sliver of moonlight that fell between them Jo could just make out a desk, a chair, the spines of books stacked neatly in their recessed shelves. And there, resting on a lace doily set on a side table, a powder-blue phone sitting in its cradle. The hair on the back of Jo’s neck stood on end.

“Find a bill,” she hissed in Brady’s ear. “A letter. Something with an address.”

In silence, as quickly as they dared, they began to search the office, rifling through drawers and sorting stacks of papers. Jo had to hold each one up to the moonlight to make out the words. This is like something a detective would do in a movie, she thought. Except it wouldn’t be grocery lists and coupons. She held another sheet of paper up to the light. Something about toxicology. 3,4-Methyl enedioxy methamphetamine. Ketamine. A bunch of other shit she couldn’t pronounce. She threw it aside. That was when she saw the little wicker wastepaper basket set between the desk and side table. She knelt and dug into it, wrinkling her nose as her hand touched a slimy black banana peel and the slick wrapper to some kind of yogurt cup. Under the thin layer of detritus, she found the letter.

A bank statement, thrust back into its torn and crumpled envelope. Her heart leapt into her throat when she saw the stamp, and beside it the chicken-scratch return address, ripped clean in half. Carefully, she folded the torn portion of the lip back over to match the partial return. In both it and the destination address, Resolution, UT stood out bold and dark. She put a hand over her mouth to stifle the delighted laugh that wanted to spring free of her.

“Brady,” she whispered, reaching for the back of his shirt. He turned, eyes widening when he saw the envelope. He was about to take it when a voice came through the window, muffled by curtains.

“Come along now, darling.”

It was Mrs. Glover. She was at the front of the house. Jo could hear her footsteps and the creaking of the porch.

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