The Drowning Game (28 page)

Authors: LS Hawker

BOOK: The Drowning Game

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Nine weeks later

“H
ELLO,
P
ETTY!”
M
RS.
Krantz, the retirement facility director said when I walked into the lobby. “I just left a message for you at your Uncle Scott's house.”

I must have looked concerned, because she smiled and said, “Just wanted to find out when you were coming in. Jeannie's been asking for you all morning. She's getting her hair done now though, so you can wait for her down in the game room.”

I held up a bag. “I brought her some candy,” I said. “Make sure she shares it with you all.”

“Will do,” she said.

“Thanks,” I said. “See you later.” I waved and walked down the hall.

I sat at a table in the game room, pulled out my new iPhone and dialed Dekker's number.

“Well?” he said.

“I passed,” I said, and I couldn't keep the smile out of my voice. “Drove myself to Grandma's today. It was terrifying.”

He let out a whoop. “I knew you could do it. I told you you could do it.”

“How's summer school?” I asked.

There was a pause.

“I have to tell you again that I really can't let you pay my tuition,” he said.

“It's already done,” I said. “If it weren't for you, I'd be married to Randy. Or dead. So just deal with it.”

“But IâÂ”

“Let me explain how this whole gift-Âslash-Âgratitude thing works. You say thank-Âyou, and you really mean it. I say you're welcome, but, like, please don't bring it up ever again. And you say I won't, and you really, really mean it. And then we move on.”

He laughed. “Fair enough. Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

We were quiet a moment.

“So have you gotten used to the decibel level there at your uncle's house?” he asked.

“Not really,” I said. “Uncle Scott and Aunt Gwen's kidsâÂmy cousinsâÂcome over and play board games and laugh and holler at each other. I have to go up to the guest room and close the door sometimes.”

“How much longer you planning on living with them?”

“I don't know,” I said. “I want to spend as much time as I can with Grandma before the Alzheimer's takes her away from me completely. They've said I can stay as long as I want. But I am coming out for Uncle Curt's pig roast party.” My heart pounded as I said this, knowing I'd get to see him soon.

“Woot,” he said. “When will you be here?”

“July second,” I said. “Roxanne's picking me up at the Kansas City airport and then we're heading down to Saw Pole. Then we'll swing up to your uncle's place. So we'll see you at his house that Friday, right?”

“Yup,” he said. “You'll get to meet my other cousins too. It'll be a blast. And bring some earplugs because Uncle Curt's hired a band, and they're loud.”

“Maybe you can play drums with them,” I said.

“Can't really hold drumsticks yet.”

“You will,” I said.

“How's your leg?”

“Better. Can only run four miles at a time though.”

“Yeah, me tooâÂoh, wait. That's not me.” He laughed. “How come you're going to Saw Pole? Are you selling the house?”

“No,” I said. “I bought a new headstone for Dad's grave with his real name on it. It's going to say, âMichael Rhones, son, brother, husband .Â .Â .' ” I choked up a little, which surprised me. “ â .Â .Â . and father.' ”

“That's a great idea,” Dekker said.

We were quiet again.

“So what's the latest word on Mitch's trial?” he said.

“Sometime next year. There are lots of motions and that kind of thing, so it's going to be a while.” My faithful viewing of the
Offender
shows had prepared me for this. “I try not to think about it. You still having nightmares?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I guess that's normal, huh?”

“What's normal?” I said.

He laughed. “Well, I'm late for class, so .Â .Â .”

I gathered my courage. “I've missed you, Dekker. A lot.”

“I've missed you too,” he said.

I could tell by the tone of his voice that he meant it the same way I did. I didn't even need a chart to figure it out.

“I can't wait to see you, Petty.”

We hung up, and I was warm all over, imagining seeing him again at his uncle's house. I was sitting in a square of sunshine coming in through the big window, smiling at nothing when my grandma walked in.

“There you are! Are you ready to play some gin rummy today?”

“You bet.”

She sat in the chair opposite me and handed me the cards. “You deal. I can't shuffle like I used to. I used to play bridge, you know. I was in tournaments. They used to call me Black Bart.”

“They did?” I said, even though I'd heard this exact thing from her nearly every day over the past two months. It didn't bother me though.

I was still learning to shuffle, so the cards popped out of my hands in groups of three and four. I gathered them back up and tried again.

“Your hair looks nice,” I said.

Her hand went up to it. “Thank you,” she said. “Yours too. Did you get it cut?”

I mimicked her and touched my head. “Yes. You like it?”

“It's very flattering. You've always had a great head of hair, Marianne.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I said, and dealt the cards.

Acknowledgments

I
AM DEEPLY
grateful to the following Âpeople:

The brilliant, gifted Michelle Johnson of Inklings Literary Agency, who turned Super Bowl Sunday into my favorite holiday and changed my life forever in the best possible way.

The team at HarperÂCollins Witness Impulse and especially the genius editor, Chelsey Emmelhainz, who spurred me to take Petty to the next level and who made the editing process almost as fun as the writing.

The staff of the Hand Hotel in Fairplay, Colorado, for the long, productive writers' retreat weekends filled with great atmosphere, food, and wine.

Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers, Pikes Peak Writers, and Lighthouse Writers Workshop, who gave me the tools I needed to get here.

The members and staff of The Neighborhood Church, who acted as beta readers and lifted me up in prayer on a daily basis.

My small group, Dan and Lori Aguiar, Bob and Deirdre Byerly, Todd and Denise Lansing, and Kim and Michael Marks, who are my encouragers and cheerleaders.

Kathy Bradford, whose insight into the heart of my manuscript gave it what it needed to attract the perfect agent and the right publisher.

Bob Byerly, whose expertise in police procedure helped me keep it real.

John Rasmussen, whose legal counsel and road-Âtrip oil cans were invaluable.

The late, great novelist and Lighthouse instructor Cort McMeel, whose enthusiasm and belief in my work gave me permission to believe in it.

My parents, Bob and Tanya Stormes, who encouraged me to dream big, and my siblings, Rob Stormes, Lori Malone, and Deveney Woodall Stormes.

My ridiculously accomplished and brainy cousins, Anne Marie Ross Mosqueda and Nancy Ross Dribin, whose confidence in me and this story made me feel accomplished and brainy too.

The world's greatest critique group, the Highlands Ranch Fiction Writers (aka Because Magic), who will not let me get away with lazy or corny writing, and who've spent countless hours with me dissecting literary theory, geek culture, and the meaning of life. They encourage me with their wit, talent, wisdom, and skill. Lynn Bisesi, Deirdre Byerly, Claire Fishback, Marc Graham, Nicole Greene, Michael Haspil, Laura Main, Vicki Pierce, and Chris Scena, you are not only my critique partners, but my dear friends, without whom none of this would have been possible.

My daughter Chloe, whose creativity, fearlessness, intelligence, and discernment hearten everyone around her and whose inner light illuminates every good thing it touches.

My daughter Layla, who's overcome more adversity in her short life than most ever will, but who manages to create mind-Âblowing art, and inspires and challenges me daily.

Most of all, I want to thank my husband, muse, and brainstorming partner, Andy Hawker, who pushed me to take my work seriously, do my best, and never give up. I'll meet you out back.

About the Author

LS HAWKER
grew up in suburban Denver, indulging her worrisome obsession with true-Âcrime books, and writing stories about anthropomorphic fruit and juvenile delinquents. She wrote her first novel at fourteen.

Armed with a B.S. in journalism from the University of Kansas, she had a radio show called Â“People Are So Stupid,” edited a trade magazine, and worked as a traveling Kmart portrait photographer, but never lost her passion for fiction writing.

She's got a hilarious, supportive husband, two brilliant daughters, and a massive music collection. She lives in Colorado but considers Kansas her spiritual homeland. Visit her Web site at
LSHawker.com
.

Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at
hc.com
.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

THE DROWNING GAME
. Copyright Â© 2015 by LS Hawker. All rights reserved under International and Pan-ÂAmerican Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-Âbook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-Âengineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperÂCollins e-Âbooks.

EPub Edition SEPTEMBER 2015 ISBN: 9780062435170

Print Edition ISBN: 9780062435187

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