Read Sleep No More for Free Online

before he started his car he dialed Bryce's cell phone.
    "Hey, Jason." The "Dad" vulnerability of earlier in the day had apparently departed. The tinny sound of iPod earbuds filled the background. Jason could picture Bryce sitting there with one of them plucked from his ear and dangling on his chest.
    "You really need to turn that thing down; you're going to ruin your hearing."
    Bryce sighed loudly, but the music disappeared.
    "I was just calling to see how everyone is," Jason said.
    "Fine."
    "Are you still at Grandmother's?" As with her name, Constance refused anything short of proper. She was the only person in the world to call Lucy
Lucinda
.
    "No."
    "Been home long?"
    "A while."
    Jason could hear the shrug in his son's voice. He longed for the day when Bryce would emerge from his teen years and participate in more than monosyllabic conversation again.
    Jason asked, "Mom holding up okay?"
    There was the slightest beat of a pause. "Yeah."
    "Can you expand on that?" Jason prompted.
    "She laid down for a nap after we got home."
    "She's still sleeping?"
    "Um, I'm not sure."
    "What's your sister doing?"
    "Watching a Disney DVD."
    "I was just headed out to get some dinner. You and Brenna want to come?"
And while I'm picking you up, I can check on your mother's sobriety.
    "No." The answer was unusually curt, even for Bryce.
    Before Jason could say anything else, Bryce added in a tone that bordered on apologetic, "I really think we should stay with Mom. Besides, we already ate. Grandmother sent home a bunch of food people carried in to her house."
    "All right, then. Tell Brenna I'll call her at bedtime." He paused. "And Bryce... call if you need me."
    "Right. Bye."
    Jason ended the call feeling more disconnected and isolated than he had in a long while.
    The sand and gravel parking lot at Jeter's Restaurant was jammed with haphazardly parked cars. It looked like a junkyard jigsaw puzzle with ill-fitting pieces. Not for the first time, Abby thought that a little organization might help. She knew that Sam Jeter didn't want to risk losing the mature trees that grew at random both in and around the lot by paving it, but it seemed he could somehow define the parking spaces. At the very least, he could reserve a spot for carry-out orders.
    She wove through the maze of bumpers and taillights and finally found a place to squeeze in her van. One of these days she'd be able to afford a second vehicle, something small and fast, easy to park; she wouldn't have to drive this logo-branded beast everywhere. Of course, her sister--who designed said logo--was quick to point out that the van was inexpensive advertising, a mobile billboard, which was necessary since Abby's business was run out of the old carriage house on the family property and not where anyone could see it. Truth was if folks wanted flowers in Preston, it was Abby or the Internet. Courtney just liked the idea of her artwork on constant display.
    The rain had stopped. As Abby gathered her purse, drips from the trees hit the top of the van, echoing like a drum. It was a lonely sound that served to remind her she'd be eating by herself again tonight.
    Jeter's was a jack-of-all-trades eatery, family dining mixed with a small arcade, a pool room, and a bar. There was a wide porch on the side with wooden picnic tables; empty tonight because of the weather. The place was Lowcountry through and through, complete with rough-sawn wood, corrugated galvanized steel, and buckets built into the tables for the crab and shrimp shells. Out back was the big smoker for the pulled pork and ribs.
    When Abby entered, she was pinned against the door by the crowd of people waiting for tables. The din of dozens of conversations was punctuated by the occasional child's squeal and clack of balls in the pool room. Everything was overshadowed by too-loud music.
    She was in no mood for chaos. Today had been filled with too many unsettling events. Dad. Father Kevin. Worst of all, those damn muddy footprints.