Read Online A Desperate Silence (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 3) by Sarah Lovett - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sarah Lovett
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sister."
"Don't make me tell your father—"
"I'm going." He swung around and stomped down the hallway.
Nellie clucked her tongue as she lured a strand of spaghetti onto her spoon. She sampled it, then retrieved a colander from a high cabinet. She was about to call her second son when she heard something that gave her goose bumps. A child's piercing scream.
Nellie dropped the colander and dashed into the hall. She cried out when she saw something on the floor. Her eyes caught motion—then she realized what she was staring at. Her two boys were wrestling, the older had the younger in a headlock.
Both boys ignored her until she grabbed Rudy by the scruff of his neck.
"Ouch!" Rudy finally released his choke hold on his brother.
"Didn't I ask you to check on Serena?"
Rudy moaned when his brother kicked him in the shin. Then he shrugged and said, "I did."
Nellie frowned at the odd expression on her older son's face. "And?" His silence alarmed her. "What?"
"She ran away, Mom. She's not there."
A T HOME IN La Cieneguilla, Sylvia slipped out of running shoes, stripped off shorts and T-shirt, and showered. She was energized from a three-mile run. Her favorite route led up the ridge behind her adobe house, but she had acres of relatively open country to choose from. That was one advantage of living fifteen miles south of Santa Fe. Another was the quiet seclusion, and the incredible star-studded night skies.
She found a cigarette in a kitchen drawer, lit it, took three long hits, then stubbed it out in the sink. She'd cut her smoking down to almost nothing. She tried her best to sit and meditate each morning—always with less-than-perfect concentration. And she was drinking vodka only on special occasions. It was all part of the year's reorganization. Her new priority: less bullshit, more peace of mind, a lot more sex. She squeezed half a lemon into a glass of iced tea, mugged a smile, then caught sight of her reflection in the kitchen window; the shiner lent her a rakish air.
It was early yet; just past four-thirty. She found the newspaper on the counter where she'd left it on a stack of mail. She began sifting through the pile. A large manila envelope contained a series of her prison-inmate interviews, just transcribed. The new issue of Corrections Alert! had a piece on female inmates' mental health issues; she set it aside to read later. There was a letter from her mother, letters from colleagues. She stacked those with the others. She knew she was stalling, not ready to tackle the book.
She refilled her glass with iced tea. Resting her elbows on the counter, she perused the newspaper; the front page had stories on the governor and new prison construction; she clipped a recipe for fruit salsa; she pulled out the movie schedule from the entertainment section. There were three films she wanted to see.
A story caught her eye: an upcoming gala fund-raiser for the Children's Rescue Fund was being held at the Frank Lloyd Wright Pottery House. Sylvia had always wanted to see the inside of the east-side landmark. She scanned the story— music by Los Mariachis Nachitos . . . dignitaries expected to attend include the governors of New Mexico and Texas . . . hostess Noelle Harding . . . $500 to $5,000 per person . She sighed and stopped reading. Harding was Texas "Big Rich," and five hundred dollars was a tad rich for Sylvia's blood. She'd catch a garden tour one of these days.
She gave the dogs water, then carried the tea to her study and sat down at her desk to rework a section of her book. This particular chapter centered around an inmate whose mother had been a prostitute, father unknown but probably one of her johns.
Light bedtime reading.
When Sylvia's first book, Attached to Violence , was published a few years earlier, it had
"Don't make me tell your father—"
"I'm going." He swung around and stomped down the hallway.
Nellie clucked her tongue as she lured a strand of spaghetti onto her spoon. She sampled it, then retrieved a colander from a high cabinet. She was about to call her second son when she heard something that gave her goose bumps. A child's piercing scream.
Nellie dropped the colander and dashed into the hall. She cried out when she saw something on the floor. Her eyes caught motion—then she realized what she was staring at. Her two boys were wrestling, the older had the younger in a headlock.
Both boys ignored her until she grabbed Rudy by the scruff of his neck.
"Ouch!" Rudy finally released his choke hold on his brother.
"Didn't I ask you to check on Serena?"
Rudy moaned when his brother kicked him in the shin. Then he shrugged and said, "I did."
Nellie frowned at the odd expression on her older son's face. "And?" His silence alarmed her. "What?"
"She ran away, Mom. She's not there."
A T HOME IN La Cieneguilla, Sylvia slipped out of running shoes, stripped off shorts and T-shirt, and showered. She was energized from a three-mile run. Her favorite route led up the ridge behind her adobe house, but she had acres of relatively open country to choose from. That was one advantage of living fifteen miles south of Santa Fe. Another was the quiet seclusion, and the incredible star-studded night skies.
She found a cigarette in a kitchen drawer, lit it, took three long hits, then stubbed it out in the sink. She'd cut her smoking down to almost nothing. She tried her best to sit and meditate each morning—always with less-than-perfect concentration. And she was drinking vodka only on special occasions. It was all part of the year's reorganization. Her new priority: less bullshit, more peace of mind, a lot more sex. She squeezed half a lemon into a glass of iced tea, mugged a smile, then caught sight of her reflection in the kitchen window; the shiner lent her a rakish air.
It was early yet; just past four-thirty. She found the newspaper on the counter where she'd left it on a stack of mail. She began sifting through the pile. A large manila envelope contained a series of her prison-inmate interviews, just transcribed. The new issue of Corrections Alert! had a piece on female inmates' mental health issues; she set it aside to read later. There was a letter from her mother, letters from colleagues. She stacked those with the others. She knew she was stalling, not ready to tackle the book.
She refilled her glass with iced tea. Resting her elbows on the counter, she perused the newspaper; the front page had stories on the governor and new prison construction; she clipped a recipe for fruit salsa; she pulled out the movie schedule from the entertainment section. There were three films she wanted to see.
A story caught her eye: an upcoming gala fund-raiser for the Children's Rescue Fund was being held at the Frank Lloyd Wright Pottery House. Sylvia had always wanted to see the inside of the east-side landmark. She scanned the story— music by Los Mariachis Nachitos . . . dignitaries expected to attend include the governors of New Mexico and Texas . . . hostess Noelle Harding . . . $500 to $5,000 per person . She sighed and stopped reading. Harding was Texas "Big Rich," and five hundred dollars was a tad rich for Sylvia's blood. She'd catch a garden tour one of these days.
She gave the dogs water, then carried the tea to her study and sat down at her desk to rework a section of her book. This particular chapter centered around an inmate whose mother had been a prostitute, father unknown but probably one of her johns.
Light bedtime reading.
When Sylvia's first book, Attached to Violence , was published a few years earlier, it had
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