Full Release by Marshall Thornton (classic books for 11 year olds txt) 📕

have called and had him meet me at Sylvia’s, but she might not be ready to talk to the police. She might only be ready to talk to me. Turning into her driveway, I could see the security door standing open. The Shelby Mustang sitting quietly in the driveway.

When I got to the porch, I stood next to the door and called out, “Sylvia.”

The house seemed unnaturally quiet. Standing very still, I wondered what I should do. Something was wrong. Sylvia seemed like the kind of woman who was protective of her things. Leaving the security door open struck me as out of character.

I stepped into the house. The small living room was a mess. The sofa had been pulled away from the wall and its cushions pulled off. The zipper on each one was opened, as though someone had run a hand inside looking for something. I squeezed my way past the large screen TV, which acted as a mirror, reflecting me as I walked across the room.

“Sylvia?” I called out again.

After the living room, there was a tiny dining room barely big enough for a small table and four chairs. On the built-in buffet, Sylvia’s son was allowed to keep a hamster in a cage. As I got closer, the tiny animal decided it was time for exercise. The wheel squeaked as it began to run in an endless circle.

The drawers of the buffet were open, their contents spilled onto the floor -- napkins, tablecloths, candles. On the dining table sat an old video camera and the bag it was normally packed in. Miscellaneous wires and empty mini-DV cases spread across the table. Was this the camera they used to make the video?

Two doors led off the dining room. One directly in front of me led to the kitchen. Another to the side led to the bedrooms and bathroom. I checked the kitchen first. Pushing the swinging door open, I peeked in. The contents of the cupboards littered the floor. It looked as though there had just been an earthquake. Letting the door swing closed, I walked across the dining room to the door that lead to the bedrooms.

My breath came really fast. I realized if I didn’t slow it down I’d hyperventilate. Standing very still, I slowed my breath. “Sylvia,” I called out for the third time. The house remained horribly silent. Through the door was a miniscule hallway. Directly in front of me was the door to the bathroom.

I turned and headed toward the bedroom on the right. It occurred to me that if she’d come home to find the house like this Sylvia might have immediately run out. The car was in the driveway, but she might have run to a neighbor’s house. Or maybe, like Eddie, she had an entirely different car she used. Either way, she might be safe right then, and calling the police. But no, she’d call me. Did this mess have something to do with why she’d decided to finally tell me who’d killed Eddie?

Stepping into the bedroom, I immediately saw that Sylvia was not at a neighbor’s house. She hadn’t driven off somewhere. She lay very still on the bed, her eyes open and staring.

Slowly, I walked over and took her by the wrist, checking for a pulse. I couldn’t find one. I broke out in a nervous sweat. She was dead. Her neck was red, particularly around her chin. There were two rows of fresh scratches, one below her chin and the other above her collarbone. At first they didn’t make sense, but then I realized she’d probably scratched herself while attempting to remove her killer’s hands. Looking more closely at her eyes, I noted that they looked flat, as if they’d never reflect light again. There were bright red hemorrhages around the edges.

I backed out of the bedroom, being careful not to touch anything. That left the other bedroom, her son’s room. It was awful to looking at Sylvia’s dead body, almost as bad as looking at Eddie’s, though I hadn’t really known her. I didn’t know what I’d do if I had to see a child dead. I walked down the short hallway to the other room.

The sheets and curtains depicted cartoon super heroes. It was difficult to tell if the room had been searched the way the others had, or if this was the normal condition of a ten-year-old’s room. The bed was empty. The floor covered in toys. Her son wasn’t here. I let out a deep, relieved sigh. Then it was time to get out of there. I tried to think back, had I touched anything in the house? I’d touched the door leading to the kitchen. I hurried back there and took the bottom of my T-shirt and rubbed it over the edge of the door where I’d touched it.

Walking back through the living room, I tried to remember if I’d touched the security door. My fingerprints on the outside wouldn’t be a big deal. Tripp knew I’d been here before. I had an explanation for those. I was almost out of the house when I noticed something I hadn’t seen before.

On the coffee table, a cordless telephone receiver faced up. The dial was dimly lit. It looked like it was on. Using the bottom of my T-shirt again, I picked up the phone and listened. It sounded as though the line was open. “Hello?” I said.

“Hello! This is the emergency operator. The police are on their way. Can you tell me the situation?”

I dropped the phone and ran out of the house. When I got to the driveway, I heard a car screech to a stop in front of the house. I spun around and ran up the driveway. I slipped by the studio into the backyard. The hill continued upward in the back until the very end of the property where it was a dozen or so feet above the house’s roofline. Doors slammed behind me. Footsteps thumped into the