Read Undertow for Free Online Page B

thing in my chest,” he said, not even bothering to fake a cough or the sniffles. I was stunned. My father never took a day off from work. He always said we couldn’t afford it, and our collection of “as is” IKEA furniture was proof. Being one of New York’s Finest also made him one of New York’s Brokest, and he dragged himself into the precinct even when most men would be planning their funerals.
    â€œStay here,” he said when he’d hung up. “Keep the door locked and your phone near you, and stay off of it. If anything happens, I’ll come home right away. Wait for me.”
    â€œWhat could happen?”
    â€œIf your mother comes back, keep her here and call me. Do not let her leave this apartment.”
    He raced into the bathroom, and I heard him take the lid off the toilet tank. Curious, I followed him and saw that he was pulling a storage bag from inside. It was filled with money. He reached into it, grabbed a handful, and stuffed it all into my hands. It was more cash than I had ever seen—fifties and hundreds—easily a thousand dollars. The rest he put back where he’d found it.
    â€œWhat is this?” I cried.
    â€œFor emergencies,” he said as he darted to his bedroom.
    â€œWhat emergencies?” I shouted, but was again ignored. Through the open door I could see him pulling on his work shirt and strapping on his gun belt. A moment later he was taking his pistol out of its lock box under the bed and shoving it into its holster.
    â€œDad, why do you need your gun if you aren’t going to work?” I asked, but he didn’t answer. He blasted through the front door and was gone.
    I had my shoes in my hand before the door closed. I had heard what he said, but I wasn’t having any of it. The way I saw it, he was only in charge as long as he was sane, and something crazy was clearly taking place. I skipped the elevator and flew down four flights, hoping I could stop him the second he hit the lobby, but when I got there, he was gone. I dashed into the street, craning my neck in both directions, but he was nowhere in sight.
    I stood in the middle of the road, concocting a horrible scenario. My mother had left my father. The note was a “Dear John” letter. It had sent him over the edge. He was going to stop her, maybe even kill her. I was going to be an orphan.
    Yes, a little dramatic, especially in light of the fact that my parents were desperately, disgustingly, embarrassingly in love. They were so into each other, it was gross. I couldn’t count how many times I had walked in on them and their baby-making practice. No way my mom would leave him, and no way my dad would hurt her, right?
    But then my brain reached into its hard drive and found about a hundred stories my father had shared about arresting some husband or wife who had snapped and killed their spouse.
    â€œNo one saw it coming” was how he ended every one.
    So, yeah, I was flung back into freak-out mode. I ran up and down the beach, looking for them. I snooped around the minor league baseball stadium and explored the end of the pier where the Mexican kids used raw chicken legs as bait for crabs. I searched the streets and alleys like a lost kid in the supermarket fighting back hysterics. Eventually I was too tired and overheated to keep looking, so I made my way to a bench outside Rudy’s Bar and pulled out my phone. With nothing else to do, I resorted to a strategy that had always worked for me in the past—passive-aggressive texting. The first text went to my mother.

    good morning. it’s ur daughter. remember me?

    When I didn’t hear anything, I cut back on the passive and amped up the aggressive.

    where the hell r u?

    Cursing had always been the right bait for a quick callback, but ten minutes passed without a reply, so I turned my frustrations onto my father.

    is everyone on drugs?

    Nothing. It was time for something more