Missing Brandy (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 2) by Susan Russo Anderson Page A
Authors: Susan Russo Anderson
Tags: Kidnapping
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what she’s doing, no matter what, and listens to her with both ears. They go into the front room, and Heather’s mom sits next to her, and there’s no one else, Heather says, you can see it in her eyes. I wish that would happen to me. But Julia says I don’t know how lucky I am. Her mother wants her to tell her everything, I mean, like, everything. Julia has a point.
My mom’s not a total witch, I guess. She calls me sometimes and tells me she’ll be late and that she loves me and misses me and let’s do something fun on the weekend, as if she knows what fun is, but I know it’ll be different when she gets home. “I’d better talk to Brandy,” her eyes say when she walks in the door. For real. Like I don’t know it’s a game with her. She can hardly wait for dinner to be over because then she can disappear. She goes into her conservatory. That’s what she calls it, where she works at her boring cases and briefs. I barely understand what she does, something to do with lawyers, and I don’t want to know. But it can’t be cool, like writing kids’ stories or, even better, TV sitcoms, because cool she doesn’t get. That’s it, she just doesn’t get it.
Heather says she’s that way because Dad died. But that’s wrong, I know, because she was like that when Dad was alive, only she had him to straighten her out. Yes, but Heather’s mom says it’s hard when there’s just one parent. I have to think about that. Doesn’t have to be true just because Heather’s mom says it is, Mrs. Coltran says, then suggests I read stories about girls with single moms. I wish Mrs. Coltran would come back. School’s not as fun with the substitute. You should have my homeroom teacher, Heather says. No thanks, I say. Once Mrs. Coltran gave me a book, supposed to be a diary about a teen who killed herself, like I was going to do myself in. I looked at the cover, and that was that. So even the good teachers don’t understand us.
Heather’s the one who told me about Harry Potter, and I like his books, but I like the Scout Finch book better, the one about the mockingbird. I wish she’d write more, except Mom told me she wasn’t six when she wrote it. Mom’s the one who gave that book to me. None of my friends liked it, but I did. She tries, Pah-tricia does, and I guess I’ve come to the conclusion that you can’t blame her. Take the clothes she wears. And those glasses. She was old the day she was born, that’s what Heather thinks. Whatever.
Chapter 9
Henry. His Backstory, Part Two
Early on before his plan was fully formed, Henry discovered that Liam had a daughter. The daughter enjoyed a perfect childhood. Younger than his son would have been had he lived.
He stalked the girl. No, that was wrong. He wasn’t stalking her, he told himself; he wasn’t that stupid, not at all. No, he was planning. He watched her leave most weekday mornings at seven twenty when she’d run down the stairs, walk down to Remsen and knock on a door. A girl, taller than the Liam child with straight black hair, would emerge, and they’d walk on Joralemon across Court Street to a door with a banner hanging over it. Their school, Packer Collegiate. The time she left her home was always seven twenty. A few times she’d be late, seven twenty-two or -three, and she’d be in a rush, struggling with her coat and backpack, hurrying down the same path. Then the girl with the black hair would be waiting outside, and the two of them would walk to school. On rare occasions, the tall girl would knock on the Liam door, and a few minutes later, they’d both walk to school.
Henry watched. He waited all day several times, running back and forth, but the Liam girl never left school until three thirty-five at the earliest, oftentimes later. After-school activities, he figured. So her afternoon routine was less predictable than her morning regimen. Sometimes she’d be with only one girl—the one with straight black hair—sometimes the two would be in
My mom’s not a total witch, I guess. She calls me sometimes and tells me she’ll be late and that she loves me and misses me and let’s do something fun on the weekend, as if she knows what fun is, but I know it’ll be different when she gets home. “I’d better talk to Brandy,” her eyes say when she walks in the door. For real. Like I don’t know it’s a game with her. She can hardly wait for dinner to be over because then she can disappear. She goes into her conservatory. That’s what she calls it, where she works at her boring cases and briefs. I barely understand what she does, something to do with lawyers, and I don’t want to know. But it can’t be cool, like writing kids’ stories or, even better, TV sitcoms, because cool she doesn’t get. That’s it, she just doesn’t get it.
Heather says she’s that way because Dad died. But that’s wrong, I know, because she was like that when Dad was alive, only she had him to straighten her out. Yes, but Heather’s mom says it’s hard when there’s just one parent. I have to think about that. Doesn’t have to be true just because Heather’s mom says it is, Mrs. Coltran says, then suggests I read stories about girls with single moms. I wish Mrs. Coltran would come back. School’s not as fun with the substitute. You should have my homeroom teacher, Heather says. No thanks, I say. Once Mrs. Coltran gave me a book, supposed to be a diary about a teen who killed herself, like I was going to do myself in. I looked at the cover, and that was that. So even the good teachers don’t understand us.
Heather’s the one who told me about Harry Potter, and I like his books, but I like the Scout Finch book better, the one about the mockingbird. I wish she’d write more, except Mom told me she wasn’t six when she wrote it. Mom’s the one who gave that book to me. None of my friends liked it, but I did. She tries, Pah-tricia does, and I guess I’ve come to the conclusion that you can’t blame her. Take the clothes she wears. And those glasses. She was old the day she was born, that’s what Heather thinks. Whatever.
Chapter 9
Henry. His Backstory, Part Two
Early on before his plan was fully formed, Henry discovered that Liam had a daughter. The daughter enjoyed a perfect childhood. Younger than his son would have been had he lived.
He stalked the girl. No, that was wrong. He wasn’t stalking her, he told himself; he wasn’t that stupid, not at all. No, he was planning. He watched her leave most weekday mornings at seven twenty when she’d run down the stairs, walk down to Remsen and knock on a door. A girl, taller than the Liam child with straight black hair, would emerge, and they’d walk on Joralemon across Court Street to a door with a banner hanging over it. Their school, Packer Collegiate. The time she left her home was always seven twenty. A few times she’d be late, seven twenty-two or -three, and she’d be in a rush, struggling with her coat and backpack, hurrying down the same path. Then the girl with the black hair would be waiting outside, and the two of them would walk to school. On rare occasions, the tall girl would knock on the Liam door, and a few minutes later, they’d both walk to school.
Henry watched. He waited all day several times, running back and forth, but the Liam girl never left school until three thirty-five at the earliest, oftentimes later. After-school activities, he figured. So her afternoon routine was less predictable than her morning regimen. Sometimes she’d be with only one girl—the one with straight black hair—sometimes the two would be in
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