Read Online The Twisted Thread by Charlotte Bacon - Free Book Online
Authors: Charlotte Bacon
Ads: Link
capped the carved newel post, and he was saying with polite insistence, âDetective, may I speak with you?â and that, though the morning had barely begun, was the last private moment of the day.
CHAPTER 6
I t was ten at night of that awful Monday, and Madeline was finally back in her apartment rummaging in the refrigerator for something to eat. There was some yogurt, a beer, cream for coffee she had to brew as a supplement to what the dining hall made, half a falafel sandwich. She shoved the falafel in the microwave, but even warm, she couldnât touch it. It had been made by Ali Khalid, a Syrian guy who ran a Middle Eastern food stand from a small restaurant incongruously carved out of a laundromat, and it represented the best food available in Armitage. Madeline liked Ali, who told her he had changed his shopâs name from Flying Carpet Foods to Alâs Snack Shack after 9/11 and could sometimes be coaxed to talk of life in Aleppo, which seemed very exotic compared to her own. Madeline would have been surprised to know that her stories of suburban American dysfunction struck him as just as foreign and that he looked forward to hearing snippets about her unsupervised youth. She usually went to Aliâs a couple of times a week just to get off campus. But tonight, her body refused the rich spicing, and she settled for yogurt and flat ginger ale left over from a dorm party.
A horrible day. A shocking day, she thought, sipping the tepid soda. And she had gotten through it and done what had been asked of her. She had rallied in the face of death and had been if not fantastically useful then not a burden to those around her. That might be as good a definition of adulthood as she had yet found, she admitted as she searched for raspberries at the bottom of the yogurt container. The question would be how long she could sustain this posture. Claireâs death and the disappearance of her baby were going to unleash a long string of horrible days.
Several disturbing facts had emerged over the last fifteen hours. The first was that Grace was going to engage in a full-on campaign to preserve her own reputation even if that meant sullying the names of those around her, with a special emphasis on Madelineâs. That a student was dead and a baby missing seemed almost irrelevant to the classics teacher: it was her position that she was considering above all. The other members of Portlandâs dorm teamâHarvey Fuller and Marie-France Maillotâalso had no intention of letting Grace tar them with her scorn or accusations, and combined, they had almost eighty years of experience in managing boarding school politics. Iâm doomed if Iâm not careful, thought Madeline, swallowing more yogurt. She was going to have to refuse to be naïve. In her first step toward astuteness, she had not immediately called Owen to tell him what was going on, not that he would have much cared. More to the point, she had not returned Kateâs call demanding instant response and total disclosure; Claireâs death had made national television by ten that morning. Of course her parents hadnât phoned to ask how she was or if sheâd known the student. But several friends had, and Madeline had ignored them all. Porter had told them not to talk to anyone outside the school and had been right to do so. Besides, there was, at bottom, nothing more to say than Claire had probably been murdered and her baby was missing. All it made you feel was completely sick. Madeline, who hadnât even liked Claire, had been cowed by her, found herself shaken to the bone and overpoweringly sad. The girl had been young, alone, a new mother. She should never have been so neglected, much less killed.
Madeline reviewed the dayâs long events while pouring out some more ginger ale. The dorm meeting during which the girls had taken turns screaming, crying, or flailing. Sally Jansen had gotten so distraught that she had to be taken
CHAPTER 6
I t was ten at night of that awful Monday, and Madeline was finally back in her apartment rummaging in the refrigerator for something to eat. There was some yogurt, a beer, cream for coffee she had to brew as a supplement to what the dining hall made, half a falafel sandwich. She shoved the falafel in the microwave, but even warm, she couldnât touch it. It had been made by Ali Khalid, a Syrian guy who ran a Middle Eastern food stand from a small restaurant incongruously carved out of a laundromat, and it represented the best food available in Armitage. Madeline liked Ali, who told her he had changed his shopâs name from Flying Carpet Foods to Alâs Snack Shack after 9/11 and could sometimes be coaxed to talk of life in Aleppo, which seemed very exotic compared to her own. Madeline would have been surprised to know that her stories of suburban American dysfunction struck him as just as foreign and that he looked forward to hearing snippets about her unsupervised youth. She usually went to Aliâs a couple of times a week just to get off campus. But tonight, her body refused the rich spicing, and she settled for yogurt and flat ginger ale left over from a dorm party.
A horrible day. A shocking day, she thought, sipping the tepid soda. And she had gotten through it and done what had been asked of her. She had rallied in the face of death and had been if not fantastically useful then not a burden to those around her. That might be as good a definition of adulthood as she had yet found, she admitted as she searched for raspberries at the bottom of the yogurt container. The question would be how long she could sustain this posture. Claireâs death and the disappearance of her baby were going to unleash a long string of horrible days.
Several disturbing facts had emerged over the last fifteen hours. The first was that Grace was going to engage in a full-on campaign to preserve her own reputation even if that meant sullying the names of those around her, with a special emphasis on Madelineâs. That a student was dead and a baby missing seemed almost irrelevant to the classics teacher: it was her position that she was considering above all. The other members of Portlandâs dorm teamâHarvey Fuller and Marie-France Maillotâalso had no intention of letting Grace tar them with her scorn or accusations, and combined, they had almost eighty years of experience in managing boarding school politics. Iâm doomed if Iâm not careful, thought Madeline, swallowing more yogurt. She was going to have to refuse to be naïve. In her first step toward astuteness, she had not immediately called Owen to tell him what was going on, not that he would have much cared. More to the point, she had not returned Kateâs call demanding instant response and total disclosure; Claireâs death had made national television by ten that morning. Of course her parents hadnât phoned to ask how she was or if sheâd known the student. But several friends had, and Madeline had ignored them all. Porter had told them not to talk to anyone outside the school and had been right to do so. Besides, there was, at bottom, nothing more to say than Claire had probably been murdered and her baby was missing. All it made you feel was completely sick. Madeline, who hadnât even liked Claire, had been cowed by her, found herself shaken to the bone and overpoweringly sad. The girl had been young, alone, a new mother. She should never have been so neglected, much less killed.
Madeline reviewed the dayâs long events while pouring out some more ginger ale. The dorm meeting during which the girls had taken turns screaming, crying, or flailing. Sally Jansen had gotten so distraught that she had to be taken
Similar Books
