Safer by Sean Doolittle Page A

boxes stacked four high along the length of one dining room wall. “OMG.”
    Oh my God.
The teenagers in Iowa spoke the same language as the ones in Boston. “LOL,” I said.
    She laughed out loud. “Cool.”
    “That’s not what the movers said.”
    “I
love
to read. What’s your favorite book?”
    “You mean out of all of them?”
    “I used to be into Harry Potter when I was a kid. Now I’m kind of all over the place.”
    “Oh yeah? What’s the last book you read?”
    She thought about it. “I just read
Bridge to Terabithia.
That was pretty good. Except I already saw the movie two years ago, so I knew the end. The book was better. Did you read
Da Vinci Code?”
    I couldn’t say that I had.
    “Me either. I’m reading this book now, I checked it out from the library. The title made me think of Ponca Heights.”
    “Wuthering Heights?”
    “That’s it! Have you ever read that one?”
    “Once or twice.”
    “It’s sort of hard.”
    “And a little depressing,” I said. “But stick with it. It’s pretty good.”
    “Talk about depressing, I’m grounded all week. That’s depressing.”
    I was happy to talk books, but I didn’t know what to say to that. Thankfully, the foreman of the Sentinel One crew stepped into the house and waved me over. I excused myself and went to answer his question, which involved the placement of the “master console” in the entryway. I told him that he was the expert. He agreed.
    When I returned to the dining room, I found Brittany Seward peering into an open box, head tilted, scanning book spines.
    “Well,” I said. “It was nice talking to you, Brittany. Let me know when you finish with Heathcliff and Catherine.”
    If she heard me, she made no indication.
    “Tell your mom we said thanks for the DVD, okay?”
    Still nothing. She appeared to be lost. I liked her already. But what was I supposed to do with her?
    Looking again at the daunting stack of boxes along the wall, thinking for maybe the hundredth time about how little I relished the thought of dragging all of them upstairs, unpacking them, realphabetizing everything I’d packed out of order in the first place, I had a flash of inspiration.
    Roger Mallory had stopped by first thing that morning to check on the workers from Sentinel One. He’d brought with him a copy of the Ponca Heights Neighborhood Directory, which consisted of a few photocopied pages of telephone numbers stapled together in a booklet. It had local fire, police, and emergency contact information organized up front, a Safer Places logo printed on the back cover. “We’ll get these updated if you and Sara want to list your number,” he’d said.
    I looked up the Sewards’ phone number. Sara had introduced me to Pete and Melody the previous morning; she’d gone jogging with Melody before sunrise, then invited the two of them over for coffee afterward. We’d all seemed to get along fine, certainly well enough that I felt comfortable looking up their number and dialing it.
    “Hello?”
    “Melody,” I said. “This is Paul Callaway.”
    “Oh! Hi, Paul. I just sent Brit to your place. Is she not there yet?”
    “No, she made it,” I said. “Thanks for the disc.”
    “We thought you might like to have a copy.”
    I didn’t need a copy, and I doubted Sara did either, but it seemed like a thoughtful gesture. “We appreciate it. Thank Pete for me, will you?”
    “I sure will.” A four- year- old voice clamored for attention in the background; Melody’s voice disappeared, then returned. “Sorry, it’s a little nuts here, as usual. Say, Paul, when did Brit leave?”
    “Actually, she’s here now.”
    “Really? Still?”
    “That’s why I’m calling.” I moved a few paces into the kitchen, out of sight of the dining room, and quickly recounted our
Wuthering Heights
conversation. “She’s a big reader?”
    Melody chuckled on the other end of the line. “We went to the Grand Canyon last summer, but I doubt she could tell you what it