Swallow

Chapter 2

The unrelenting screech of Patsy Porter's alarm clock flooded her ears and reverberated in her head, snapping her out of a deep sleep. Instinctively, she stretched toward the sound, but found a barrier holding her back from its shut-off button. An end to the racket was hidden somewhere beneath a strange cover of fabric.

"What the—"

Leaving things on top of her alarm clock was something Patsy would never do. It was, in fact, something she hated very much. She worked through her sleep hangover and tried to think clearly. Where did it come from? Her bedroom was so small and filled with so much that everything had a specific place to be in her room. If she couldn't file it away, it didn't belong. This thing had been left in the one place where she would be sure to notice it as soon as she woke up, which meant that someone had been in her room while she slept—a concept that gave her a twinge of the creeps. Not only because she was out cold and vulnerable but also because their presence threatened her organized personal space. There was only one person she knew who had an annoying habit of invading her personal space.

Mom.

Patsy reached beneath the barrier to stop the blaring noise, then went back to the fabric, allowing herself a moment to enjoy its smooth silkiness. It was as soft as powder in her hands—expensive material for sure. She unfolded it as she stood up. A cashmere and silk Burberry scarf spread open and her jaw dropped as she thought about the value. Those scarves didn't come cheap; they cost big bucks. There was no way anyone in the Porter house had that much money to spend on an accessory. Of course, she knew instantly that nobody had spent anything on it. Coming from Kathy Porter, it was most likely stolen.

Patsy did a once-over to check if anything needed tidying after the invasion. Nothing else in her room appeared to have been touched. Not her neat makeup vanity. Not her dresser or her closet—contents sorted neatly by size and type—and not her school things lying on the small chair by her door. Not the special little wooden box hidden behind the old photo on her top shelf. Everything, aside from the new scarf, was exactly how Patsy had left it when she had shut her eyes the night before. She clutched the delicate fabric in her hand, careful not to scrunch it.

"Mom!" Patsy shouted as she left her room.

She found her mother lying on the living room couch, wrapped tightly in a blanket. There was only one bedroom in their apartment, so the couch doubled as her mom's bed. Her thick strawberry-blond mane covered most of her finely lined, freckled face—a face that looked a lot like Patsy probably would in twenty years.

"Mom. Where did you get this?" Patsy demanded, although she already had a strong idea.

Kathy snorted as she opened her eyes. "Gift," she said. "Happy birthday."

"It's not my birthday, Mom. My birthday was in April."

"I know." Kathy sighed and sat up. "So then happy whatever. Can't you just be grateful?"

"I asked you to not bring me stuff from your employers. What happens when someone notices it missing and sees me wearing it somewhere? What then?"

"Relax. Mrs. Harding gave it to me."

"Did she really?" Patsy asked suspiciously. It still smelled of whatever perfume Mrs. Harding had doused it with. Something exotic, most likely. She had several bottles from Paris, even without counting the two that her mother's sticky fingers had slipped away undetected. Patsy studied her mother, willing a truthful answer she knew she would probably not get.

"Yep," said Kathy, who didn't seem to care she was being scrutinized. She yawned and finger combed her untamable hair away from her eyes. "I'm going to go shower. Make me an omelet?"