Read Online In Search of Eden by Linda Nichols - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Linda Nichols
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was the only thing she could think of to say.
chapter 7
----
J oseph drove to Fairfax and followed the directions his mother had given him to Davidâs house, then let himself inside after retrieving the key from the neighbor, as heâd been instructed. It felt strange being in his brotherâs home. He had never been here before. Not once in twelve years, and he looked around with a sense of unreality. It felt as if he were watching something on television or at the theater. He felt a little guilty, as if heâd done something wrong, but he was only waiting for Eden to be returned from another friendâs house so he could take her back to Abingdon.
He looked around slowly and felt himself slip into cop modeâgathering evidence as to what kind of people David and his wife had become.
Someone was artistic. He knew it was Sarah. She had always had a flair for making things beautiful. The walls were deep colorsâthe living room red, the kitchen gold. He wasnât well versed in interior design, but the furnishings and decorations looked expensive and had been put together with care. Everything was either red, gold, or dark green, with flashes of purple here and there. Something about it reminded him of royalty.
The house was decorated for Christmas, but with excruciating care. The tree was artificial and done completely in purple and gold. Even the presents underneath were all wrapped in the same gold foil with purple bows. He couldnât help remembering his motherâs Christmas tree, a live, noble fir covered with mismatched ornamentsâevidence of thirty years of teaching elementary school and twenty summers of running a camp. Ma had a homemade quilt underneath it, and the presents were covered in a motley assortment of wrappings. He turned away and walked back into the kitchen.
He lifted an eyebrow at the scattering of something on the kitchen floor. He bent closer and examined it. Seed husks. He looked up. There was a hook in the ceiling. So there had been a bird. It was gone. Neighbors were taking care of it, most likely. And Sarah had left in a hurry, so thereâd been no time to sweep the floor.
He went near the photo wall in the front hallway. There were studio stills and black-and-white candids, all tastefully matted and framed. Sarahâs handiwork again, he supposed. He scanned the pictures. There was Eden as a baby. Pretty eyes, button nose, pink mouth, and a thatch of dark hair. He looked at the photograph of Sarah holding her in the next shot, looking blond and tanned and happy. There was a set of what seemed to be mother-daughter pictures taken each year, probably on Motherâs Day or some such. Sarah wearing a pink dress and holding Eden as a baby. The passage of years was evident mostly in Eden as she progressed from drooling infant to toddler to child. He calculated how old she was and then realized with a familiar flood of emotion that he didnât have to calculate. He knew. The day his brother had taken Sarah and left plus nine months, give or take six weeks or so.
He felt his jaw clench but released the tension when he thought of Eden the person rather than Eden the symbol. For the real flesh-and-blood child had wrapped him around her heart from an early age. Heâd called her Annie Oakley since she wasfive. He talked to her weekly. She phoned his mother every Sunday night without fail, and he just happened to be stopping by most of those nights. She e-mailed him twice a week or so. She was in the midst of writing detective stories now and frequently would post her latest installments to him via e-mail. He recalled yesterdayâs missive. It was a fast-paced whodunit, liberally salted with exclamation marks and parenthetical asides. âDo triggers click?â she had asked.
Heâd sent back his reply last night, not knowing he would see her before she read it.
Dear AnnieO: Your bad guy is most likely using an automatic weapon, in which case
chapter 7
----
J oseph drove to Fairfax and followed the directions his mother had given him to Davidâs house, then let himself inside after retrieving the key from the neighbor, as heâd been instructed. It felt strange being in his brotherâs home. He had never been here before. Not once in twelve years, and he looked around with a sense of unreality. It felt as if he were watching something on television or at the theater. He felt a little guilty, as if heâd done something wrong, but he was only waiting for Eden to be returned from another friendâs house so he could take her back to Abingdon.
He looked around slowly and felt himself slip into cop modeâgathering evidence as to what kind of people David and his wife had become.
Someone was artistic. He knew it was Sarah. She had always had a flair for making things beautiful. The walls were deep colorsâthe living room red, the kitchen gold. He wasnât well versed in interior design, but the furnishings and decorations looked expensive and had been put together with care. Everything was either red, gold, or dark green, with flashes of purple here and there. Something about it reminded him of royalty.
The house was decorated for Christmas, but with excruciating care. The tree was artificial and done completely in purple and gold. Even the presents underneath were all wrapped in the same gold foil with purple bows. He couldnât help remembering his motherâs Christmas tree, a live, noble fir covered with mismatched ornamentsâevidence of thirty years of teaching elementary school and twenty summers of running a camp. Ma had a homemade quilt underneath it, and the presents were covered in a motley assortment of wrappings. He turned away and walked back into the kitchen.
He lifted an eyebrow at the scattering of something on the kitchen floor. He bent closer and examined it. Seed husks. He looked up. There was a hook in the ceiling. So there had been a bird. It was gone. Neighbors were taking care of it, most likely. And Sarah had left in a hurry, so thereâd been no time to sweep the floor.
He went near the photo wall in the front hallway. There were studio stills and black-and-white candids, all tastefully matted and framed. Sarahâs handiwork again, he supposed. He scanned the pictures. There was Eden as a baby. Pretty eyes, button nose, pink mouth, and a thatch of dark hair. He looked at the photograph of Sarah holding her in the next shot, looking blond and tanned and happy. There was a set of what seemed to be mother-daughter pictures taken each year, probably on Motherâs Day or some such. Sarah wearing a pink dress and holding Eden as a baby. The passage of years was evident mostly in Eden as she progressed from drooling infant to toddler to child. He calculated how old she was and then realized with a familiar flood of emotion that he didnât have to calculate. He knew. The day his brother had taken Sarah and left plus nine months, give or take six weeks or so.
He felt his jaw clench but released the tension when he thought of Eden the person rather than Eden the symbol. For the real flesh-and-blood child had wrapped him around her heart from an early age. Heâd called her Annie Oakley since she wasfive. He talked to her weekly. She phoned his mother every Sunday night without fail, and he just happened to be stopping by most of those nights. She e-mailed him twice a week or so. She was in the midst of writing detective stories now and frequently would post her latest installments to him via e-mail. He recalled yesterdayâs missive. It was a fast-paced whodunit, liberally salted with exclamation marks and parenthetical asides. âDo triggers click?â she had asked.
Heâd sent back his reply last night, not knowing he would see her before she read it.
Dear AnnieO: Your bad guy is most likely using an automatic weapon, in which case
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