Stranger in the House Read Online Free Page B

door. At first she saw no one there. Stepping out onto the front porch, she observed the familiar back of a man descending the flagstone steps to the driveway where his car was parked.
    “Buddy,” she called out, “come back. I’m here.”
    Detective Mario Ferraro started and then turned slowly around to face the woman standing in the doorway. She was smiling in welcome. Over the years he had come to know her well. Long after Paul’s case had been officially abandoned, she’d continued to call him with questions about psychics or other missing children or any case that bore any similarity to her own. He had responded with what he hoped was patience and care to each of her desperate hopes, tracking down any fillip of a lead that came his way. “It’s that poor woman again,” a rookie named Parker told him the last time she had called with news of a child who had turned up in Houston. That poor woman.
    He knew that was how the others saw her, but secretly he admired her courage and her tenacity. After losing her son and then the baby, she had pulled herself together and committed herself to the search. Some people thought it was abnormal, but Buddy saw the logic in her efforts. But for the grace of God, he had reminded himself often, he would have had to make such a choice as hers. He had decided to help her. One night Thomas had taken him aside in the kitchen and apologized to him for Anna’s relentless questions and leads. “There’s no getting through to her,” Thomas had said. In a way Thomas’s reaction had bothered him more than Anna’s. But he’d held his tongue. “I don’t mind,” he’d told Thomas. “I can imagine what she’s going through.”
    “What’s the matter with you?” Anna asked, squinting at him. “You look kind of sick.”
    Buddy Ferraro smiled with one corner of his mouth. “I’m glad you’re here.”
    “I was out in the garden. I didn’t hear your car come in. I hope you haven’t been standing here for long.”
    The detective shook his head. Buddy climbed the steps haltingly. When he reached the porch where Anna stood, he looked at her and frowned, pressing his lips together. Anna linked her arm through his and led him into the house. “My garden,” she said, “is really terrific this year. I’ve got something for you to take to Sandra. Eggplants and tomatoes. You get that wife of yours to make you eggplant Parmesan. No excuses. I’ll give you a big bagful to take home.”
    “Anna…” he began.
    Arm in arm they had passed through the foyer and into the bright L-shaped living room, which was filled with flowers, baskets of magazines, and needlepoint pillows on the furniture. Anna released the detective’s arm and gestured toward a chair next to the fireplace at the end of the room. “Please sit down,” she insisted. “I haven’t seen you in such a long time now. I’m glad you came by. I was just in there starting to feel sorry for myself.” She moved her knitting bag off the chair matching his and sat down opposite him.
    Buddy perched on the edge of the seat and leaned forward.
    “Can I get you something to drink? Club soda or a beer?”
    The policeman shook his head. “It’s good to see you,” he said quietly. “But this isn’t just a friendly visit. I have some news for you.”
    Anna gasped as if he had slapped her. Over the years she had been like a disappointed lover, waiting for a missive that never came. In time she had grown to expect the postman, not the letter. Now, suddenly, the detective was turning it all around. She stared into his eyes, trying to read what the message might be.
    “Is Thomas home?” he asked quietly. “I think he should be here.”
    “He’s not…he’s out,” she whispered, her eyes riveted to the detective’s face.
    Buddy Ferraro frowned. “Maybe we should…”
    “It’s Paul,” she said. She clasped her hands together and pressed them to her lips. “Tell me,” she whispered.
    Buddy nodded and cleared his