Spy to the Rescue Read Online Free Page A

shows, haunted house shows, and cake-baking shows.
    â€œDad, Bait Car ,” I say as he zips past one of our old obsessions. He keeps on flipping, but at the same time, he reaches out to the half-empty pizza box and tears off a piece of the buffalo chicken pie. Mom takes the occasional nibble of her tepid slice between bursts of forced laughter. These are the people who told me “It’s nothing”and “It’s fine” when I asked them if anything was wrong.
    I know something is up. I knew it when Strike sent me those texts designed to send alarm bells clanging in my head. I knew it when he failed to respond to my many, many return texts, calls, and emails. I knew it when Jeff and Nancy Wilder came home from their respective jobs an hour later than usual, he from managing the local Pottery Barn, she from the courier company she runs, Wheel Getit2u.
    They came home together. They came bearing pizza. And they requested the pleasure of my company. Not Ryan and Blabby, who, they claimed, they didn’t want to disturb (or, more likely, be disturbed by). Not Natalie, whose Cheerminator health regime meant pizza was a no-no. So, just Bridget in the living room with her laughing mother and flipping father. Both of them chomping down morsels of pizza and looking like it was giving them as much pleasure as eating dirty concrete.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” I ask. Again.
    Dad looks at Mom. Mom looks at Dad. She stops laughing. He hits the Power button, turning the screen black. Dad leans forward. Mom sits down on the couch and pats the cushion next to her. They both have these half smiles and wide eyes that say, Trust us. We love you .
    Uh-oh.
    Whatever’s coming, I’m not going to enjoy it.
    I sit on the end of the couch, leaving two cushions between me and my non-laughing mother. I notice pink foam packing chips at her feet, the kind companies use to fill crates so that the items inside don’t get damaged. The floor of my mom’s workplace is ankle-deep in them. She must have tracked them into the house and not noticed, which, like the laughing, is out of character for her and evidence that something is on her mind.
    â€œWe like Carter Strike,” she says.
    I say nothing.
    â€œWe were surprised the way you made contact with him. We’d rather you’d talked to us first and let us approach him. But we know what it meant to you to meet your biological father and we’re glad you got to know him.”
    She looks over at Dad. His turn.
    â€œAnd we like him. He’s a good guy. He’s made what could have been an awkward situation comfortable for all of us. He’s got your best interests at heart, I really believe that, in spite of . . .”
    Clang clang clang!
    â€œIn spite of?” I repeat.
    Dad finishes his slice. Mom sighs. Ball’s back in her court.
    â€œWe’re home a little bit later than usual tonight because . . . I had a kind of a crisis at work . . .”
    â€œBoom-boom-boom. One thing after another,” I say. I don’t try to copy her forced laugh.
    She nods. “One of our vans that should have been back in the depot never returned. You know we got that account with the software company I was telling you about?”
    I pretend I do.
    â€œThis was one of our first big jobs with them. A lot of specs and samples going to clients. The driver made a couple of the deliveries on his schedule and then the van went missing.”
    Did your parents talk to you yet?
    I didn’t do it.
    I feel myself flush.
    Mom picks up speed. “I called the police. They found the van. It only took about . . .”
    â€œA half hour. Forty minutes tops,” says Dad. “They got on it.”
    â€œThey found it in Suntop Hills,” says my mom, looking straight at me. “Outside Carter Strike’s condo.”
    â€œBut that doesn’t mean he’s got anything to do with it,” I say. I hear my voice echo around the living