The Book of Lies - Brad Meltzer [77]
“It’s empty,” he tells us.
“You sure?” I ask, waving him off the chair. “Lemme see.”
Standing on the chair, I reach into the hole and pat around. Filled with dust and old bits of plaster, the space feels like a narrow shelf built into the wall. But whatever was once there is long gone.
“Maybe there’s another somewhere else,” my dad says, already skating his fingertips along the wall on our right. Now excited, Naomi starts patting down the wall by the door. But within a minute, it’s clear this is the only hole.
“You sure it’s empty?” Naomi asks me.
“I’m telling you, it’s just dust and sand and whatever old crusty stuff settles in houses after seventy years.” Rummaging in the hole, I sweep out most of the debris, which rains down in a gray cloud, followed by the original flap of wallpaper that was covering the hole. Still attached at the base, the torn flap sticks out at me like a tongue, then sags downward against the wall. But it’s not until the flap of wallpaper dangles that I finally see what’s printed on the opposite side. It’s hand-drawn . . . black-and-white . . . like an old 1930s . . .
Comic book.
Fudge. Me.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” my dad blurts. “That’s the missing story!”
“What’s it say? Are there any more?” Naomi adds.
I tug on the thin flap of wallpaper and slowly peel it away from the wall. There’s about a half inch more of art, then the back side of the wallpaper becomes blank with patches of yellow from the old, rancid glue. With a final rip, I hop from the chair. I’m trying to skim the comic—which is only a single panel—but the way my hands are shaking, it’s like being eighteen and trying to read a pregnancy test.
“What’s it say?!” Naomi insists.
“Hold on!” I shoot back, staring down at the panel.
“Yowzie?” my dad reads over my shoulder. But I’m still staring at the book.
Before I can even read the rest, I look at the edges of the panel—from the weight of the small sheet—there’s even more art that’s stuck together underneath this one. It’s hiding other ripped-up pieces.
“Jerry glued them all together,” I blurt. “H-He— I think I’ve got a full page of—”
I look up at Naomi, whose back is to the bedroom door. But as she smiles at the news, a pale shadow appears in the open door behind her. Someone’s here.
If Ellis—
No. This isn’t Ellis.
In a blur, Serena whips around the corner, her yellow blue eyes constricted into two black slits. She’s crouched like a baseball player, thanks especially to the fact that she’s armed with a broom, which she clutches down by the neck of the bristles, already swinging away.
“Serena, don’t!” I call out.
But I see the way she’s looking at Naomi’s gun.
Plowing into the room, Serena aims at Naomi’s head and swings the broom like a Major League slugger. The problem is, she’s not one. There’s a dull thud at the impact. Naomi bends forward, grabbing the back of her head.
“Ow! That— Ow!” Naomi shouts. “You friggin’ nuts!?”
Lifting her gun, Naomi turns to face Serena. And that’s why she doesn’t see my father behind her.
Already flying, my dad grabs the hammer-size gold trophy that’s sitting on a nearby TV. But the darkness in his eyes . . . even when he killed my— I’ve never seen him like this.
“Dad?” I call out in a whisper that surprises even me.
Naomi wheels around, off balance as she follows my voice. It’s just— Just like before. There I am. The perfect distraction.
Time, once again, slows to a crawl.
My father clutches the golden man at the top of the track meet trophy and swings the heavy marble base toward the back of Naomi’s head.
I’m not a child anymore. I run forward. But that doesn’t mean I’m fast enough.
Midstep, my father turns toward me. But as our eyes lock— No. My father is long gone. The rage on this man’s face . . . I haven’t seen him since I was little. I keep forgetting. I don’t know this man at all.
Naomi never sees it coming.
When I was nine years old, my father committed the worst accident of his life. But