Property of the State Read Online Free Page A

things stand out, and not just the BMW. Everything in the house is oversized, an exercise in excess, from the slate roof to the baby-grand piano in the basement rec room—a twenty-by-forty chamber also home to ping pong and pool tables, a fireplace big enough to roast a pig, and a half dozen dead animal heads on the walls. And that’s just the daylight end of the basement.
    Hell, there are thirty-two smoke detectors in the house. And people wonder why I need a week to clean.
    I approach from the rear. Caliban—a freak show mutt who adopted the Huntzels, or maybe just Huntzel Manor—greets me outside the laurel hedge that forms the boundary between park and backyard. From the front, Caliban looks like a dust mop on stilts. The full three-hundred-sixty-view is even more absurd: a lion reimagined by The Biggest Loser . Mrs. Huntzel said she thinks he’s half-Pomeranian, half-greyhound, half-pit bull. I don’t even want to know how that happened.
    When he sees me, he charges up the hill, tongue flapping. I flinch in anticipation of the tackle, but he barrels past and spins, then hip-checks me.
    â€œWatch it, dog.” I rub his shaggy head and continue down to the hedge gate. The rain has stopped and sun shines through broken clouds. I cross to the veranda, peering through windows. No sign of life. At the side door, I knock and wait. The air feels dense, or maybe the pressure is all inside my head. If it was right after school, I’d go in—except for days when I ride with them, I often beat the Huntzels here. But it’s past five. I feel weird arriving so late.
    When no one comes, I make for the front door. Caliban pads along behind. The doorbell is a freaking gong: you can hear it anywhere in the house.
    Nothing.
    â€œWhere is everyone, dog? Still at the hospital?”
    Caliban wags his tail, which I take as a yes.
    My head is about to fall off and gore has glued my shirt to my chest. Any minute, carrion birds will start circling. “They won’t mind if I go in and clean up, will they?” Another wag. I’m surprised he can understand me. In my ears, my voice sounds like a swarm of bees. Not that it matters. I’m talking myself into what might be viewed as trespassing should someone get pissy about it. Small fries, if Cooper tries to start my laptop.
    â€œI’m going in. Cover me.”
    Wag.
    I use my key at the side door and step into a mud room with openings to the front hallway, the south stairs, and the kitchen.
    â€œHello? Anyone home?” I punch in the alarm code on the panel inside the butler’s pantry. On the long center island in the kitchen there’s a Rite-Aid bag—Vicodin for Philip. They’ve been here and left again, if the silence is any indication. Knowing Mrs. Huntzel, she took Philip for ice cream.
    Caliban follows me to the downstairs bathroom. The face looking out of the mirror sends a wave of nausea through me. Blood crusts my neck and shirt, and still oozes from a swollen gash near my right nostril. I soak a towel with cold water, hold it against my nose. After a minute—or an hour—the nausea subsides enough that I can rinse. When I finish, my face pulses in time with my heartbeat and my shirt is drenched, but the reflection in the mirror is slightly less harrowing. I hide the gash behind a Star Wars bandage from the cabinet over the sink.
    I wipe up and put the towels in to soak in the laundry room, then return to the kitchen to see if anyone has come home. The house is a tomb, the only sound the ticking of the grandfather clock in the front hall. The crackle of the Rite-Aid bag in my hand is louder.
    Anita swears by OxyContin, but she won’t turn up her nose at Vicodin. I’ve never had either. The dull, red ache in my head tells me there’s a first time for everything. I quickly dry-swallow a pill and return the bottle to the bag. Hopefully Philip won’t count.
    I close my eyes and lean against the