Sleeping with the Fishes
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter One
The unbelievable horror began, when Fred walked in on her parents making love on the living room coffee table. Like all children (even when grown), her first muddled impression was that her father was hurting her mother. Or perhaps fixing her back. Her second impression was that the coffee table books (Alaska: The Last Frontier; Cape Cod: An Explorer’s Guide; The Black Sea: A History) must sting like hell on her mother’s knees. Her third impression sounded something like this:
“Aaaaeeeiiiiieeee!”
Her mother slipped and National Geographic’s Seals of the Antarctic flew like a tiddly wink from the coffee table and hit the floor with a thud. Her father flinched but, unfortunately, did not fall off (or out of) her mother.
Fred darted across the room and, before she realized what she was doing, hauled her father off and ossed him over the back of the couch. She then yanked the puke-orange throw from said couch and threw it over her mother.
“Ow,” her father groaned from out of sight.
Her mother wriggled under the throw, sat up, and faced her daughter, her normally pale face flushed with wrath. Or something else Fred did not want to think about. “Fredrika Bimm, what do you think you’re doing?”
“Freaking out. Losing my mind. Thinking about snapping your husband’s spine. Squashing the urge to vomit. Wishing I’d died at childbirth.”
“Oh, you say that when you don’t get a prize in your Lucky Charms,” her mother snapped. “What’s your problem, miss? You don’t knock anymore?” Her mother, a good-looking blonde with silver streaks and shoulder-length hair (and a disturbingly sweaty face), climbed off the coffee table with remarkable dignity, fastened the blanket to cover her chubby thighs, and went around the couch to help her husband. “You just barge in?”
“I have a key, I didn’t barge,” Fred pointed out, still revolted but regretting the violence. “And you told me to come over.”
“Yesterday. I told you to come over yesterday.”
“I was working.” Fred tried not to whine, or stare. “I couldn’t just ditch all the fish. Although they deserve it, the little bastards. Anyway, I couldn’t come.”
“Well,” her mother retorted, “neither could I.” Fred again tried not to vomit, and succeeded for the moment. She peered over the couch, where her father was groaning and clutching the small of his back. His bald spot was flushed almost purple. His ponytail had come undone. “Sorry, Dad.”
“Sorry, hell,” he gasped. “I swear, I’ll never touch her again.”