Deadly Little Lessons Read Online Free

long-winded lectures about peace, love, and honesty are all just a pile of BS.
    “Look, your mother and I would really like to sit down and talk this out,” he continues. “Now, just tell me where you are.”
    He still isn’t denying it. The tightening sensation returns to my chest.
    “Camelia?” he asks.
    I drop my cell phone. It lands on the floor with a clank. The case breaks. The clip holder goes flying.
    “Is she all right?” I hear one of the regulars ask.
    I’m breathing hard. The room starts to spin.
    “Do you need help?” a female voice asks me.
    “Get her a glass of water,” someone else says.
    Their voices only make me dizzier, so I cover my ears and do my best to remain composed, wishing this were all a dream, that I could wake up and be the girl I thought I was, rather than this person I no longer know. This person who will never be the same.

I SPEND THE NEXT fifteen minutes in the bathroom, regaining my breath and praying for the spinning to stop. Once I’ve managed to get a grip, I step out of the handicapped stall and return to the dining area.
    To my complete and utter shock, Dad is at the front counter, paying my check.
    “How did you know where to find me?” I ask him.
    “Don’t forget your cell phone,” he says, sliding it down the counter toward me.
    I glance at the row of regulars, assuming that one of them must’ve picked my cell up from the floor, answered it, and told my dad where I was. They’re all focused on me rather than the television now, as if I were every bit as intriguing as the girl on Open Cases .
    “Let’s go,” Dad says.
    I follow him out to the car, both surprised and disappointed that Mom isn’t in the front seat.
    Once inside, Dad locks the doors and turns to me. “We have a lot to talk about,” he says.
    “Just tell me,” I mutter. “I need to know if it’s true.”
    “If what’s true?”
    I squeeze my eyes shut, resenting him for making me be the first to say the words. Then I open my eyes and gaze out the window, wishing that I could jump out, and that it was a whole lot further down.
    “Camelia?”
    I look at him again. “Are you and Mom my real parents?” The question comes out in a whimper.
    But still he understands. I can tell by the flare of his nostrils and by how firmly he presses his lips together. “We have a lot to talk about,” he repeats; these seem to be the only words he can currently say.
    Meanwhile, I have no words left.
    I get out of the car to give myself a moment. It isn’t long before Dad steps out, too. He takes me in his arms, and I reluctantly feel myself melt. Tears run down my cheeks, onto his shoulder, dampening his shirt. I want to be angry at him, but right now I just need for things to be the way they used to.
    I’m not sure how long he holds me—if it’s for two hours or two minutes—but we eventually get back inside the car and head for home.
    Mom is waiting in the living room. She embraces me as well. They both hold on to me as if I were some long-lost treasure that they don’t ever want to lose again. But I feel like it’s already too late.
    Eventually, Mom sits me down on the sofa and gives me some dandelion tea. Her eyes look brighter than normal, as if she might have recently popped a pill.
    “Is it true?” I ask, still waiting to hear them say it, part of me hoping that they might somehow even deny it.
    “How did you hear about this?” Mom asks, kneeling down in front of me.
    I look at her—at her red, corkscrew curls and her angular face—and suddenly feel so stupid. Because what I once thought of as a mother-daughter resemblance—our almond-shaped eyes, our high cheekbones, our pointed chins—I now know is a resemblance between aunt and niece.
    “We were going to tell you,” she continues, “but our lives have been complicated lately.” She starts to prattle on about how fearful she’s been for me, because I’ve been involved with all things lethal (avoiding being murdered, rescuing