The Paladin Prophecy

DAD’S HOME

Will peered around the side of his house: The black cars were gone.

He hurried to the back door and entered silently. Someone was in their kitchen. He caught a whiff of his mom’s perfume and cookies baking. Will edged down the hallway and peeked into the kitchen.

“Belinda” was pacing back and forth, holding a cell phone to her ear. As he watched, she raised a hand to the back of her neck and flinched, as if in pain.

Then she spoke into the phone in a monotone voice he hardly recognized: “He’s not back … I don’t know where he went … yes, I’ll let you know if he …”

Will backed away down the hall. He landed on a creaky floorboard, then bumped into the wall trying to avoid it.

“Will-bear?” she called. “Is that you? Are you home?”

Damn.

“Hi,” he said, reopening the back door as if he’d just come inside.

“Come in the kitchen! I made cookies!”

“One sec. I’ve got mud on my shoes.” He wanted to run again, but Dad would be home soon. But he couldn’t face her yet, either, and with that loopy song blaring away, he couldn’t think straight. Will closed the door loudly and followed the music to the living room.

The antique turntable sat next to Dad’s precious vinyl collection: LPs and stacks of old 45s, still in their paper sleeves. The soundtrack of his parents’ lives. Will knew this music better than his own generation’s.

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