Shadow Riser, Page 2

magnet on the refrigerator's door. Her mother’s handwriting stood out in bright blue letters.

  Kennedy placed the cordless phone on top of the kitchen counter and walked closer to read it.

  “Went shopping for groceries, be back soon. I love you both. P.S. Kennedy, you are hereby prohibited to touch the tray I’ve left cooling in the oven!”

  The girl smiled triumphantly. She pounced on the stove, the lemonade forgotten for the moment. She opened the oven door, her face still adorned with a predatory grin, and discovered her favorite snack. A freshly baked batch of caramel topped, white chip brownies.

  Memories of the sweet taste of the fudgey chocolate as it melted on her tongue when she bit into one of the small square cakes the last time that her mother had baked them assaulted her.

  The note clearly stated that she was forbidden to touch the tray, but it said nothing about its contents. Pushing her conscience aside, she stretched a hand out to take a piece. She was just about to make her conquest when the cordless phone she had left quietly resting on the counter rang loudly.

  She jumped in surprise.

  “Ouch!” She cried out as she accidentally bumped her hand against the hot oven rack.

  Even after she'd pulled it back, her thumb felt as if it were on fire. She looked down at her hand and saw that a red welt had already begun to appear just at the base of it. Kennedy blew on it and brought it up to her mouth to suck on, just as she used to do when she was little. It really stung.

  And everything had been going so well.

  The phone rang again, reminding her of the cause of her recent injury, and she instantly dove for it.

  She knew that her father never answered the house phone when he was on one of his brainstorming sessions. He had his own private line in his study and always said that if it really was important, they wouldn't be calling the house line. But, she didn’t want to risk it anyway.

  Kennedy shook her head at her own silliness. She pressed the green button that read, “talk”, and held the phone to her ear with her uninjured hand.

  “Hello?” She greeted, there was a pause and then a stern male voice could be heard on the other end.

  “Hello, may I speak to Mr. Riser?” The strange voice asked, in English.

  “I’m sorry, but my father is busy right now. Would you like to leave him a message?” She had been expecting the usual Spanish that accompanied regular phone calls. The fact that the caller greeted her in English immediately let her know that it might be important after all.

  “No, I’m afraid this can’t wait. I’ve got something very important that I need to discuss with him.” The unidentified caller’s voice echoed her thoughts as it suddenly acquired a sense of urgency that concerned her.

  “I’d like to help you sir, but he specifically asked not to be bothered today.” She had already taken a tentative step towards her father's office. However, she was still debating whether the call was actually important enough to warrant a lecture.

  “Just tell him that Archer needs to speak with him, he won’t refuse.” Kennedy hesitated, the man sounded desperate. Would her father really want to talk to him?

  “Please, Kennedy, it’s very urgent.” Archer insisted.

  “How–” She was starting to get anxious. How did this Archer know her name and why was he so adamant that her father would immediately accept his call? She finally caved and decided that maybe she really did need to get her father and ask him about it. “All right, just wait a second while I go get him.”

  “Thank you. Please, hurry.” She just hoped that it truly was an emergency or her father wouldn't be very happy with her. Grave thoughts in mind, she made her way to the door of the study and nervously knocked on it twice.

  She heard the music pause and her father’s answer of a tired, “Yes?”

  “Papa, there’s a Mr. Archer on the phone and he says that it’s very important that he speaks with you.” She could have sworn that she heard him curse under his breath. The sound was quickly followed by the loud scrape of a chair against the tiled floor as he hastily got to his feet.

  The door clicked open almost immediately and the offered phone was abruptly snatched from her hand. She looked up as the door swung shut on her face once more and didn’t even have time to complain about her father’s rudeness before his angry voice interrupted her.

  She could make out a few of the muffled words through the closed door and by the sounds of it, he wasn’t at all pleased with what this Archer guy had to tell him.

  It appeared that her father was angry at the man for calling the house instead of his mobile or private number. Also, that he – she didn't know whom – had known the risks of doing something beforehand and that Mr. Archer, whose first name seemed to be James, needn't worry about it.

  Kennedy’s curiosity was piqued. The matter appeared to be a serious one and up until then, she'd never believed that her father might actually be involved in anything dangerous. He wrote the monthly weather column in the local newspaper for God's sake. It both worried and intrigued her.

  She'd been so lost in her own thoughts that she didn’t hear her father end the conversation and head out. The door opened so fast that she had no opportunity to move and she looked up to meet the disapproving stare of Steven Riser.

  “I–” She didn’t even know what she could say to justify her eavesdropping. It was like her brain had shut down momentarily and she was left a blabbering idiot.

  “We’ll talk about it when I get back. Tell your mother that I’m meeting with Archer.” Having said that, he rapidly walked out of the house.

  She stared at the now closed door for several passing seconds. Her stomach rumbled. The noise snapped her out of her stupor.

  She wanted to take one of the brownies that waited alluringly in the oven, but she was afraid of the world ending the next time that she stuck a hand in there. Instead, and against her very nature, she made herself a tuna sandwich and followed it with that glass of lemonade that she had also been craving. Then, she headed upstairs to take a shower.

  Before she could reach her private bathroom, Kennedy stood at the doorway to her room and regarded it pensively, just like she had done millions of times already. She knew that it was time that she started thinking of changing the room’s décor. But, she never got around to it.

  The walls were still the same pink color her mother had picked out for her when she'd been five. The paint was so pale and rosy that every time that she looked at it she was tempted to go, “blah!”, and run out of the room.

  Kennedy distinctively disliked pink, every cute and sweet shade of it. Far from the EMO cliché of it all, the color just made her feel out of place in her own space. To her predisposed mind, it spoke of femininity and poise and shiny cotton candy flavored lip gloss. None of which applied to her.

  The floor was lined with a furry purple carpet, which she did like. It was probably the only thing that she had been able to decide on in her room, so it would stay.

  Her mother could be very controlling when it came to the looks of her house. She had decorated every single room, even the cellar, all except for her father’s study. It remained the epitome of nerdish bookwormness, if those were even real words, set in green and brown tones that could also be found dominating most of his wardrobe choices.

  She sighed and made her way to the closet to get a change of clothes. All the while, she tried her best to ignore the flowers and butterflies print of her bed sheets. Her mother had said that she wanted her daughter to be more feminine, more delicate, when she had bought them.

  Poor mama, instead of the little girl who liked to dress up as a princess that she had wanted so much, she got stuck with her, a tomboy that refused to even look twice at a skirt and was always elbow deep in mud when she'd been smaller.

  Following that line of thought, she remembered the time when she had asked for an all terrain vehicle for her sixth Christmas. Santa and her mother had plotted against her and she go
t an extremely hot pink convertible – that to her horror played loud upbeat music while she drove it around – as a substitute.

  It died from lack of use at the back of the garage.

  She had been so disappointed that the following year she'd left the red-clad traitor some saltines and water instead of the usual chocolate chip cookies and milk that she always left. She figured that if he wasn’t going to be nice to her, she was in no obligation to do so either, let him go on a diet for all she cared.

  Kennedy smiled at the memory as she walked into the bathroom that adjoined her bedroom and placed her fresh clothes on top of the toilet’s tank.

  She stepped into the shower and turned it on at full blast, set the temperature to its coldest and let the water fall over her head.

  The cool liquid turned warm as soon as it made contact with her hot skin, it flowed over her legs and down the drain. Then, colder water began to replace it as it kept raining from the shower-head above her.

  Halfway through her shower, she heard the faint sound of a car coming up the driveway and the tell tale squeaks of the brakes as it came to a halt. Her mother was home. She hurried to finish cleaning up so that she could go help her mother carry the groceries inside.

  Sure, she was a great daughter and the possibility of finding a chocolate bar at the bottom of one of the plastic bags was more than compensation enough.

  She turned the water off and pulled the yellow