Aren’t you going to call Jacob?

    On the kitchen counter, the phone message pad was propped up conspicuously against a saucepan.
    Jacob called, Charlie had written.


      He said he didn’t mean it, and that he’s sorry. He wants you to call him. Be nice and give him a
      break. He sounded upset.


    I grimaced. Charlie didn’t usually editorialize on my messages.
    Jacob could just go ahead and be upset. I didn’t want to talk to him. Last I’d heard, they weren’t big on
allowing phone calls from the other side. If Jacob preferred me dead, then maybe he should get used to the
silence.
    My appetite evaporated. I turned an about face and went to put my things away.
    “Aren’t you going to call Jacob?” Charlie asked. He was leaning around the living room wall, watching me
pick up.
    “No.”
    I started up the stairs.
    “That’s not very attractive behavior, Bella,” he said. “Forgiveness is divine.”
    “Mind your own business,” I muttered under my breath, much too low for him to hear.
    I knew the laundry was building up, so after I put my toothpaste away and threw my dirty clothes in the
hamper, I went to strip Charlie’s bed. I left his sheets in a pile at the top of the stairs and went to get mine.
    I paused beside the bed, cocking my head to the side.
    Where was my pillow? I turned in a circle, scanning the room. No pillow. I noticed that my room looked
oddly tidy. Hadn’t my gray sweatshirt been draped over the low bedpost on the footboard? And I would
swear there had been a pair of dirty socks behind the rocking chair, along with the red blouse I’d tried on two
mornings ago, but decided was too dressy for school, hanging over the arm. . . . I spun around again. My
hamper wasn’t empty, but it wasn’t overflowing, the way I thought it had been.
    Was Charlie doing laundry? That was out of character.
    “Dad, did you start the wash?” I shouted out my door.
    “Um, no,” he shouted back, sounding guilty. “Did you want me to?”
    “No, I got it. Were you looking for something in my room?”
    “No. Why?”
    “I can’t find . . . a shirt. . . .”
    “I haven’t been in there.”