Untraceable

Survival Skill #6

Never let an opponent see any sign of weakness or fear.

~

As soon as I wake up the next morning, I spread out my notes, hoping to spot something I haven’t seen before. Detect something I’ve missed.

“Grace!” My mother shrieks from downstairs.

I ignore her and scramble to gather the papers sprawled across my bed. After shoving everything into my bag, I jump over to my desk and quickly begin tying flies to replenish my fishing stock. Mom’ll freak out if she sees me obsessing over Dad’s case. Again.

Besides, what she doesn’t know won’t hurt me.

A few seconds later, she bursts into my room. The door slams against the wall, enlarging the long-standing hole caused by a missing doorstop. Mom is frowning and breathing heavy from skipping up the stairs in a hurry. “Grace! Did you hear me calling you?”

“Mm-hmm.” I study the diagram on my computer screen. Following the instructions, I position a size-twelve hook in the vice and load black thread into the bobbin. Holding a small duck feather in place, I loop the delicate string around it several times and add a few hackles. To top it off, I tie a perfect whip finish. It’s critical to make the fly just perfect down to the gnat’s eyebrow or the fish will know it’s a total fake.

She stomps over and flips off my screen. “You’re being rude.”

Without looking up, I mumble under my breath. “Ditto.”

Her face pops up over my shoulder. I catch a whiff of her flowery perfume and unwillingly soften at the familiar scent. Until she speaks. “Why do you keep tying those? Don’t you have enough?”

Without looking up, I pin a fly onto my rack and think to myself, why do you care?

Her breath tickles the nape of my neck. “Not talking? Why are you so crabby today?”

I hang up another one of my masterpieces. “Why is it that you come in yelling at me, and I’m the one who’s crabby?” Blowing my self-inflicted bangs away from my face, I lean in and admire my handiwork.

Mom grows strangely quiet behind me.

I twirl around on the wobbly stool, nervous she’s found my case notes. Instead, she’s strolling around the room, hands clasped behind her back as if she’s visiting a museum. I cross my arms in front of me. “Mary, can I help you with something? Or are you just browsing?”

She scowls back. “What’s this Mary thing lately? I don’t like it.”

“Sorry … Mary” I smirk. Fighting with her seems unavoidable. We can’t—or maybe won’t—stop tromping on each other’s hot buttons. The days of swinging on the porch together, sipping lemonade, are a distant memory.

Mom ignores me and continues perusing my room like it’s a cheap souvenir shop. She picks up a horse statue and flips it over, possibly checking for a price. “Heard you went to see Captain yesterday.”

I rub my temples and curse my oversight. Two of the hundred and eleven things that suck about living in a small town: dumb news travels fast; and it always visits the wrong people first. In this town, if I blow my nose wrong, it’s sure to be breaking news in the “Medical Section” of The Smoky Review.

Before I can reply, she sneaks in a tiny dig of her own. “I called Jim.”

I sigh. “I figured.”

“He’s expecting you at noon.”

Great. I rub my forehead. “I’ll be sure to count the minutes.” It’s embarrassing enough that I’m forced to see a shrink, but one named Dr. Head? Not to mention I still don’t understand why I’m the one sentenced to whacko sessions when she’s the one who acts mental. “By the way, how come you get to call him Jim, but I have to call him Dr. Head? Or, should I say, Dr. Head-ache?”