Page 59 of Snake

Huh. Maybe this snake can change. The old Knox would have grabbed my wrist and hauled me down the stairs.

I find Vicky in a cozy lounge area filled with bookshelves, a fireplace, and a set of worn leather sofas. She stands to greet me, her arms wide for a hug. When I don’t rush over to her, those arms fall limply to her sides.

Amazing how flimsy trust is.

“I didn’t realize you knew my son.” Her warm smile makes me think she’s not bothered that I rejected her welcoming arms. “He says you know each other from school.”

I almost laugh. But if I let out that sound, it would be manic and Vicky might think I’ve lost my mind.

“He never told me he was your son.”

She sits reluctantly, throwing me a carefully blank look. “Everyone around here knows it, sweetie. Maybe he just assumed you did, too.”

My body stiffens at her evasive answer, but I force a smile onto my mouth. Two can play at this game.

“Is Boomer your dog?” I don’t know where the question comes from, or why it’s the first thing I need to know.

Vicky gives me a wide-eyed look. “Boomer?” she repeats slowly, then glances up at the ceiling and taps her lips. “Oh, the plotty? No, he belongs to our company, The Plott Thickens.” She snaps her fingers and laughs. “Your friend, Romi, she left me a message at my office.” Then Vicky frowns. “But you answered the phone that day.”

“That was me,” I say, my voice thick with sudden nerves. “I didn’t know it was you I was leaving a message for, and I wasn’t sure if anyone would call back a nobody like me.”

Vicky’s smile is sympathetic and kind. “Oh, honey. Never say that. You’re not a nobody.” She stands and comes over to me, folding me into a hug as she takes the seat beside me. This time, I accept it. I have a feeling, in this town, you need as many people in your corner as you can get.

“I have something to show you,” Vicky says, patting my leg. “Remember I said I had some of your parents’ things?”

My stomach shrivels in dread, even though she’s smiling. Perhaps because she’s smiling. It’s a kind smile, fond even, but that doesn’t help.

Vicky goes over to the bookshelf, retrieving a shoebox from the shelf. It’s white, a black ribbon keeping the lid in place. When she comes to sit beside me again and opens the bow, I can read “Weitzman” on the lid. I’m not familiar with them, but they sound pricey.

A gust of wind blows a stray leaf against the window. I glance up as Vicky takes out a stack of photos. There was some snow last night, but not as much as I’d hoped for. Most of it has already melted. From the drop in temperature again, I’m guessing there will be more tonight.

“Most of these are from our Academy days,” Vicky says. “A handful from high school.”

“You knew my parents since high school?” I take the first picture she hands me. Three young adults—a boy and two girls—with the guy draping an arm around both the girls’ shoulders.

I instantly recognize my mother. Back then, her eyes were larger, her face rounder.My father’s face changed since he was a boy—it became harder, his nose larger, his chin less defined. His hair was much shorter back then too, almost a buzz cut.

Vicky obviously had work done since high school. Her nose was much wider back then, and her ears stuck out so far that they protruded from her hair. She’s adorable in this photo, but I guess that’s not the look she was going for.

“This was taken in our senior year.”

I turn over the photo.

CINDERHART HIGH

Vicky Zara

Ruth Graydon

Oscar Winters

“Your mom joined the Cinderhart Darlings that year. I was head cheerleader back then. That’s how we met. Your father played football that year, and—”

“That’s how they met,” I cut in, frowning. “At least, that’s what they told me.”

Vicky’s face turns from a sentimental smile to a hard frown when she sees my expression. “Nim, sweetie, your parents were wonderful people, and my best friends. We—” She cuts off, clears her throat. “Everyone loved them. And their romance was one for the books.”

She sighs, staring down at the photo for a moment before shuffling through the stack in her hand. “Here’s us in our senior year at the Academy.”

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