Letter From Home by Carolyn Hart

knocked on my door, but I didn’t answer. I pretended I was asleep. When Mama was upset, she was hard to talk to. She rattled the knob and that’s when somebody knocked on the front door. Everything happened real fast, somebody trying to shush her and Mama’s cry. I knew something bad was happening and all I could think of was getting away. I got up and ran to my window and pushed open the screen and went out. I ran up the road fast as I could.”
    â€œAnd that’s all you know, Miss Barb?” His voice was weary.
    â€œThat’s all.” Her voice wavered.
    The chief clapped his hat on his head. “All right, girl. If you think of anything else, you call and I’ll come.”
    Grandmother moved past him, pulled the door open.
    The big man nodded. “Thank you, Lotte,” he said, but his eyes still watched Barb and his heavy face was dour.
    Only Gretchen could see Barb’s hands clasped under the sheet, her grip so tight the knuckles blanched.
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THE HOUSE WAS hot and still. The shades were drawn but the summer sun peeked around the edges. Gretchen struggled awake. The whirr of the electric fan stirred the air, but Gretchen felt sweaty from sleep, her head aching. She looked around the room. Her clothes lay in a jumbled heap where she’d dropped them. She stared at the alarm clock and felt a shock as she realized the time. She scrambled out of bed and hurried into the living room.
    â€œBarb?” Even as she called, Gretchen knew the house was empty. They’d put Barb in Jimmy’s room, but Barb was gone and so was Grandmother. They’d left her to sleep, a dreadful hot sweaty sleep with ugly visions of Mrs. Tatum, her body sprawled on the braid rug, her face distorted, her throat marked.
    The cuckoo clock chirped. Ten o’clock. She was late. Mr. Dennis despised people who weren’t on time. That was part of the reason he was usually mad at Mr. Cooley, who was almost always late. Except with his stories. He still got his stories in on time—if he was in the office.
    Gretchen dressed fast, in a cool summer dress with a white piqué top and red-and-white checkered gingham skirt. She slipped barefoot into her white sandals. The phone rang as she was pouring a glass of orange juice.
    â€œHello.” She was breathless.
    â€œMein Schatz—”
    â€œGrandmother”—Gretchen’s voice was sharp—“you shouldn’t have let me sleep. I’m late.”
    â€œThat is why I have called. Do not worry, Gretchen. I spoke with Mr. Dennis and he understood that you had no sleep. I told him you would be there at eleven and he was pleased. He said”—she repeated the words uncertainly—“that there is big news on the wire and you can be of great help. Now, you must eat a good breakfast. There is a muffin and fresh strawberries. Oh, the pot is bubbling—I must go now.”
    Gretchen drank the juice, quickly ate the apple muffin. She gave her hair three quick swipes. It was a quarter after ten when she left the house. She could be at the Gazette office in less than five minutes. But first . . .
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THE DRAPES WERE drawn at the Tatum house. Gretchen opened the screen, knocked on the front door. The house lay quiet as death. Gretchen would have liked to whirl and run away. But Barb should be here. She wouldn’t have gone to work. Maybe she’d gone to Amelia’s.
    Gretchen waited a moment, twisted the knob. The door was locked. Nobody ever locked their front door. Or hardly ever. The rigid knob was an unyielding reminder of the unimaginable. Gretchen clung to the handle. Yesterday she’d looked through the screen at Barb’s mother, her face tight with anger, but vivid and alive. Mrs. Tatum could have had no thought that she was going to die so soon, that someone would walk through this door, this very door, and hands would clutch her throat and press until there was no more breath.
    Gretchen yanked