Scared to Death by Wendy Corsi Staub Page A

hangs up. Seeing Renny obediently strapped into her booster seat, Elsa tosses the tote bag onto the backseat, climbs behind the wheel, and starts the car. They have to go. They can’t stay here alone, knowing someone really was prowling around in the night.
    Are you sure of that?
    A broken branch, a footprint.
    Yes. She’s positive, sick-to-her-stomach positive that someone was in the bushes beneath the window—the one Renny had said the monster climbed through.
    Someone really was in her room last night.
    Every time Elsa allows that thought to fully form, a wave of disbelief sweeps it away.
    Maybe you’re wrong. Maybe…
    But…
    A broken branch. A footprint.
    Please don’t let it be happening again. Please, God…
    Â 
    Caroline Quinn glumly sips a gigantic frozen Starbucks coffee drink that tastes like a milk shake and probably has a gazillion calories. She really didn’t want it, but she had to order something. And she really doesn’t want to be here, but she has to be somewhere, right?
    Somewhere other than home, where Annie’s being a nosy little pain in the butt as usual, Mom has a depressing plan to clean out the basement storage unit in preparation for the move, and the cleaning ladies are making such a ruckus that you’d think they were expecting the president for dinner.
    There was a time when such a concept wouldn’t be all that far-fetched. But now that Congressman Quinn has become Inmate Quinn, the era of high-profile dinner guests is over—at least for now. Someday, she’s certain, Dad will straighten out this whole mess and come home. Until then, it’s going to be a long, lonely summer, and she’d better figure out where she’s going to spend it, because anything is better than being at home. Even sitting in the crowded neighborhood coffeehouse with nothing to do but eavesdrop on the world’s most boring conversations.
    â€œSo then I told him…”
    â€œOh no, you dih-unt!”
    â€œOh yeah, girl, you know I did!”
    The two women seated at the table to Caroline’s right, close enough to touch, erupt into ear-splitting laughter once again.
    â€œMo’ whip cweam, Mommy!” demands the bratty little kid at the table to Caroline’s left, also mere inches away.
    â€œIs that how we ask for something, Dakota?”
    â€œMo’!”
    â€œYou need to say please.”
    And you need to say “cream,” not “cweam,” Caroline wants to put in, fed up with the doting mother and bratty kid with the cowgirl name that seems downright stupid here in Manhattan.
    Wincing as Dakota lets out a shrill “ Noooooo ,” Caroline fumbles to unzip her shoulder bag on the back of her chair. She already checked inside for her iPod, and it wasn’t there. Normally, she doesn’t leave home without it, but she was pretty desperate to escape earlier. She feels around inside the bag, thinking maybe the iPod will magically appear now that she’s desperate for headphones to block out the kid.
    â€œWhip cweam, whip cweam, whip cweam …” Dakota rhythmically bangs the table with her fists.
    â€œYou’re my little drummer girl, aren’t you?” her lame mother croons, and one of the women to Caroline’s right, in the midst of an exuberant fist bump, elbows her in the arm.
    â€œOops, sorry about that, hon.”
    â€œIt’s okay,” Caroline mumbles, and glances around for an empty spot far, far away from these annoyingpeople. Not only are there no vacant tables, but the line at the register snakes almost back to the door.
    She supposes she could always get up and go…but where?
    Not home. Not yet.
    Shopping?
    If Dad were still around, she’d have a pile of cash and probably at least one of his credit cards in her wallet. He always told Caroline to get whatever she needed—or wanted, for that matter. But those days are over for the time being, and