The Trick To Getting A Mom. Amy Frazier

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      “Alex, enough.” He pulled her hands from her ears. “You’re overtired, and it’s time for bed. We’re going.”

      Alex yanked hard on his hand. “But I want Kit to watch me tomorrow! Not Pop Pop and Uncle Jonas!” She shouted so loudly, Eric let out a high-pitched yelp behind the plate glass.

      “McCabes, out. Now.” Adele stormed down the corridor.

      “Sheesh,” Noah muttered, slouching past Alex. “Why’d you hafta ruin it for everybody?”

      Unabashed, Alex stuck her tongue out at her cousin.

      Brad patted Sean on the back as he and Mariah herded his brood down the hall. “Hang in there, buddy.”

      “Hold the elevator.” Trying not to grin, Pop followed.

      “Be good.” Jonas tweaked Alex’s nose in passing. “See you tomorrow.”

      “Nuh-uh,” Alex muttered almost inaudibly.

      “What did you say?” Alone in the corridor, Sean knelt on one knee before his daughter.

      Alex refused to speak. This was so unlike her. Normally, she told him far more than he needed to know. She didn’t argue with him. And she loved spending time with Pop and Jonas.

      Sean tilted her chin so that she had to look at him. “I won’t have bratty behavior.”

      “I’m not a brat,” Alex muttered.

      “But you’re behaving like one.”

      “Then you’re behaving like one!” she wailed. “Seafaring Cecil’s our favorite. But now she’s right here, you won’t let me be nice to her. You’re just a big phony!”

      “You’ve crossed the line, Alex. I won’t tolerate disrespect.”

      “But everybody’s disrespecting Kit!” she cried.

      Sean gritted his teeth. “Kit is no concern of ours.” She certainly wasn’t if she could drive this ugly wedge between him and his daughter, between him and his family.

      “But Daaaad—”

      “Not a word, Alex. I mean it.” Picking up his daughter like a sailor’s duffel, he headed for the elevator.

      Alex withdrew into silence and became stiff in his arms, clearly showing her displeasure, clearly shutting him out.

      SOMETHING WASN’T RIGHT.

      Kit pushed open the front door to Babe’s rental. She could have sworn she’d locked the tiny house. But then nothing worked in this place. The long Maine twilight cast the sparse furnishings in gloom, making them appear shabbier, if that was possible. Babe had always rented, and she’d always rented furnished. She used to say that as long as she had a springy double bed, she was home. She always told Kit things Kit knew other mothers didn’t share with their daughters. Shouldn’t share.

      The faint odor of a man’s cheap cologne hung in the air. Was it new—an unsettling thought—or just a lingering reminder of Ed Crenshaw?

      Sean didn’t wear cologne.

      He smelled of the sea and of shirts hung out to dry in the tangy salt air. He smelled like a man who worked out-of-doors for a living ought to smell.

      She moved her foot to feel for the backpack with her flashlight where she’d left it beside the front door. The pack and her sleeping bag were her only luggage. She traveled light.

      Hairs rose on the back of her neck as she suddenly realized that her things had been moved from one side of the door to the other. Flattening herself against the wall, she listened intently. Nothing. Not a sound except crickets chirping beyond the front screen door.

      Sliding slowly down the wall, she fumbled in the outer pocket of her backpack for her flashlight—weapons grade, she’d called it when she’d bought it—but didn’t turn it on. She had a cell phone, but the battery was dead. Besides, who would she call? The police? She’d never considered the police on her side. No, the heavy flashlight would have to do.

      She scanned her surroundings. The house was minuscule. Kit hadn’t noticed—or felt—anything amiss when she’d clambered over the yard sale mess on the porch. The front door opened directly into a living space that elled on the left into a kitchen and eating area. In daylight she could see the entire area from where she stood. Her eyes now accustomed to the dusk, she detected no out-of-place shape or movement.

      But she sensed something—or someone.

      Straight ahead, the door to the single bedroom hung open. Kit could see most of the room, the double bed, the single dresser. She couldn’t see into the bathroom off the bedroom or out onto the back porch, which opened off the kitchen. Never lifting her gaze from the bedroom doorway, she stood on one foot and then removed a boot. Prepared to flee out the front, she flung it with all her might through the bedroom doorway. The boot landed with a thud against the far wall, the noise echoing throughout the mostly empty house.

      Nothing but the racing of her heart.

      She slipped her foot out of the other boot, then crept barefoot across the living room into the kitchen. It, too, was empty and silent. She felt a little foolish, Kinsey Millhone in a Nancy Drew town.

      Peering through the window over the kitchen sink, she couldn’t see anything on the porch. She tried the back door. It was also unlocked. How many men had Babe given keys? Every sense alert, she stepped outside.

      Twilight had receded into night, but the moon hadn’t risen yet. The house was set back from the road in a thick copse of evergreens that hid the neighbors on either side and out back. Kit scanned the line of trees.

      Off to the right, a few yards into the trees, was a huge granite outcropping. She couldn’t see it now in the dark, but beyond the trees where the rocks were, a small glow caught Kit’s attention. Too orange for a firefly, it was more like the lit end of a cigarette. As she stared, frozen, the light arced then disappeared.

      Sometimes retreat was the better part of valor.

      Kit backed into the house and locked the door, jamming one of the kitchen chairs under the knob. Hefting the other chair to the front door, she locked and jammed that too. There were only five windows in the entire house. She checked that they were all shut and locked. It would be stuffy, but in her travels she’d experienced stuffier. Physical discomfort barely registered on her sensory radar. Emotional discomfort…well, better not go there.

      She grabbed her sleeping bag and unrolled it under the kitchen table. An intruder would least expect to find her there, although she hoped she was just being paranoid. Too much time spent in this stupid prying town.

      An intruder? More likely kids, hearing the rumors of Babe’s flight, had checked to see if the house was empty for a smoke or an illegal beer scarfed from Mom and Dad’s fridge.

      Kit quickly shed her jeans, then crawled on top of the sleeping bag in her tank top and panties. Lying under the table, she snorted softly at herself. She should have been wearing her cap-cam. Her Seafaring Cecil fans would have found a video version of this latest adventure a hoot. It would certainly blow her tough-guy persona.

      She breathed slowly, trying to regain her center. Four slow breaths in, four out. She tried to focus on a pleasant memory—kayaking in Tasmania. But her mind wandered to Alex McCabe and her small kindnesses.