A soft chime from the living room tolled, its tone leaving the word “hurry” ringing in Wyatt’s ears as it faded. “You’ll be late,” he said, whisking the jam and cream cheese away from the table, the latter from just beneath Pug’s probing knife.
“Hey,” Pug barked. “Just because you suddenly have appointments this morning shouldn’t mean I have to panic. Breakfast is not done until the paper is read.”
“I don’t see why you bother reading that rag. It slants so badly that it’s a wonder the words don’t run right off the page when you pick it up. And in case you didn’t notice, it’s slanted away from you.”
“This is our home town now, Wyatt. We should at least pretend to care what happens around us and that’s how you know. It’s not like we’re in the gossip loop. It’d be good to know, for starters, why the police have been so busy on our street.”
“I can answer that one. Boredom drives people to do strange things.”
Pug rose from his seat, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin, and then turned to the door.
‘’I’ll get the paper,” Wyatt said. “You go brush your teeth. That’ll save at least a few minutes anyway.”
“I could just read the paper in the car,” Pug called as he traipsed towards the bathroom.
“You will not!” Wyatt called back.
“What’re you so nervous about?” Pug muttered.
Wyatt stubbed his toe hard on the outer door, which had hung up on something, rather than swinging wide open. A heavy obstacle kept it lodged at a slight angle, yielding only to a shove. The mild panic that had been plaguing him all morning spiked for a moment as a brief flashback to the previous evening set in. First it was Sydney and his mysterious and sinister errand, then that eavesdropping cop, and, lastly, Pug’s unsettled demeanor as he described the shadowy stalker trailing him and Petra back from the beach. When one couldn’t count on Pug to stay unruffled, that was a sure sign of peril.
Wyatt peered out onto the stoop and spied a rectangular box. It was the sort in which 10 reams of copier paper come tightly fitted together, its straining cover held in place by multiple lengths of packing tape. The lid was adorned with a single sheet of paper inkjet-printed with the legend “Atticus Fenton.”
Wyatt backed away and scurried to the nearest phone. Pug heard the excited tone in his voice as he reported the box and stepped out of the bathroom in response. “What’re ya doin?” he asked, talking around a mouthful of toothbrush.
“Giving the police a boredom reliever.”
