Look Closely - Laura Caldwell [85]
I started to feel hot, my scalp itchy. A scribbled number on a scrap of paper might have been an everyday occurrence for many people, but it was completely unlike my father. He always carried around a small notebook in his jacket pocket, and every desk he owned had its own address book. And he wasn’t the type to meet women at bars, especially ones who lived in New Orleans. Or was he? What did I really know about him anymore?
I lifted the phone and dialed the number. It took an eternity before it began ringing. Agitated, I stood from the desk and paced with the cordless phone. The ringing continued, unanswered. I jiggled my leg. I blew my bangs away from my forehead. Finally, I sighed and sat back in my father’s chair. After nine or ten rings, I hung up and tried again, just in case I’d dialed incorrectly. Same thing. A distant, ringing phone with no answer, no machine.
I felt deflated, tiredness overtaking me. I copied the number on a Post-it and carefully tucked the scrap of paper back under the lamp. I stood from the chair, surveying the room in case I’d missed something. Then I heard the rumble of the garage door. My father was home.
My first reaction was to hide. I switched the lamp off and ducked under the desk, tucking myself into a ball and pulling the chair in to conceal myself.
I held my breath, safe for the moment. But then a rush of panic swooped in. He would notice that the alarm had been turned off! I almost crawled out, but then it dawned on me that he might simply wonder whether he’d forgotten to arm it. I heard him entering through the kitchen and walking the rooms. I heard him flipping light switches.
Just get up, I told myself. Talk to him, like you promised Matt you would. But I reminded myself that what I’d actually promised Matt was that I would find something, and now I had. This odd scrap of paper with a New Orleans phone number. The words of my niece whispered themselves in my ear—He went to Orleans.
I didn’t know if this phone number had any connection to Dan, but I did know that my father had already lied to me. I couldn’t believe anything he said anymore. So what would be the point now of asking him? He would lie again, and then if the person who was at that New Orleans number had anything to do with my mother—or my brother or sister—he would tell them to run. I might never find out if it was Dan at that number. I would never find out if the piece of paper meant anything at all.
My father’s footsteps approached the study. I prayed it was too late for him to work. But then the overhead lights blazed on. I imagined the meticulous way he stood there, letting his eyes roam over the room for anything amiss. I tried to envision the hammerhead. Had I put it back squarely in the center of those faxes? And the University of Chicago cup—had I moved it back to the right place?
The front of the desk, where I was crouched, faced the far wall, so he couldn’t see me. If he decided to make a call, though, or take some notes, it would be over. The blood began to pound in my ears as I waited, listening to him. This was so bizarre, but I didn’t trust him anymore.
Suddenly, he shut off the lights and moved down the hallway. A moment later, I heard his light footsteps on the stairs up to his bedroom.
If I ran out now, the alarm would go off again the minute I opened the door. And if I disarmed it, he would hear those tones, too. Either way, he would know someone had been in the house. Despite everything, I hated to think of his jolt of fear