Property of the State Read Online Free Page B

counter. Caliban sits patiently as I await the bliss state which seems to define Anita’s existence. There’s a metallic taste in the back of my throat and a throbbing between my eyes.
    Anita is a moron. Or I am.
    I open my eyes. Through the window I can see all the way to the West Hills. Money.
    â€œThis sucks, dog. Let’s go find some dry clothes.” He wags his tail.
    Philip’s room is a minefield of empty cereal bowls and paperback science-fiction novels. My cleaning duties don’t include personal areas, thank God. His Book is on top of the tangled wad of blankets and pillows at the head of the bed. That tells me all I need to know about how bad his nose is. He never goes anywhere without his Book, a three-ring binder filled with page after page of notation on every chess game he’s ever played.
    Rooting through his dresser for something to wear, I’m surprised by a folder under his socks. It’s filled with clippings from grocery store tabloids, all pictures of Bianca Santavenere. Weird. I would not have pegged Philip for an obsession with the used-to-be teen star now best known for stunting wardrobe malfunctions to get on TMZ. I remember her mostly because Maddie, my first foster mother, used to watch reruns of Bianca’s show while us kids cleaned house. It was one of those teen drama-fests—lots of expensive clothing, crying jags, and “we have to talk” moments. But Bianca is ancient now, like forty-something.
    Philip, dude…seriously?
    I snag a sweatshirt with the words Symphonica d’Italia on the front, whatever that means. A pair of gym shorts completes the ensemble. Back in the laundry room, I strip to my underwear. Clothes join the towels in the washing machine, heavy-duty cycle.
    As I pull on Philip’s sweatshirt, a wave of dizziness comes over me. I shake my head. Mistake. Woozy, I drag my backpack to the rec room. I’m thinking I should start cleaning—good way to explain my presence. But my arms and legs feel like mud. I need to sit down for a few minutes first. Catch my breath, maybe check messages. Mrs. Petty will have something to say even if I have no intention of calling her back.
    The oversized sectional couch is softer than I remember. My phone rests in my hand, ignored, as I melt into the upholstery and peer at the moose head hanging over the mantle. A quarter-inch layer of dust coats the broad antlers. I can’t believe I let it get so bad. I make a mental note for Thursday, rec room day. The other heads—bighorn sheep, a couple of pronghorns, a Thomson’s gazelle—will need dusting too.
    Caliban scootches up beside me and I scratch behind his ears. “You gonna back me up, dog?” His fur is a tangle of twigs and mud. “I could say I was coming over to take care of my Tuesday schedule and you knocked my ass down the hill.”
    Wag.
    â€œI agree. A Caliban-tackle face-plant is way more plausible than hooligans.”

1.5: Lay Low
    A voice jerks me out of a slow-motion dream. I’m running from Wayne, running from Anita’s forklift, from Mrs. Petty’s Impala—all to a soundtrack of feverish violin music. Cooper is asking me why my laptop won’t boot up. I blink and suppress a groan. The light through the French doors is thin and watery.
    â€œPhilip! How many times have I told you to wait until you have a full load before you do laundry?”
    Mrs. Huntzel’s voice. Close, but not too close. The laundry room is at the far end of the basement, but sound echoes strangely against the old stone foundation. I can’t hear Philip’s response, but I can guess, based on Mrs. Huntzel’s next words. “Don’t tell me you didn’t do laundry. I’m putting it in the dryer as we speak.”
    Sorry, Philip.
    Gingerly, I explore my face with my fingers. It’s mushy and tender at the point where my nose struck the corner of the desk, but the Vicodin must have done