The Secret Holder

XIII. A Change of Pace

ONE WEEK later

The off-white of the walls is unfamiliar. The way light hits the thick glass of the window makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. But it's home. The sun has only risen about a quarter above the horizon. This Saturday is just beginning.

I pull my red Stanford sweatshirt over my head, and open the door as quietly as I can. Are they even awake yet? If they are, they could be having a serious conversation; there's no noise coming from downstairs or through the hall. Rethinking my decision to go outside, I close the door, when the sweet aroma of freshly-brewed coffee fills my room. I have to go now, even if I interrupt something.

The black cherry floor is cold, and the edges of the stairs are sharp against my heels. On the last step, I stop and take a look at the kitchen. Sheriff Stilinski reads the newspaper, a mug of coffee in hand, and a thin stack of case files on the table.

"You're up early..." he looks up from the paper and his eyes widen. "Oh, uh...good morning, Lydia,"

"Good morning," I say cautiously, leaning on the doorframe. "I was just wondering if I could get in on some of that coffee?"

"Yeah, um...of course. I just finished this pot, but I can show you how to make some with the machine."

"Okay, great."

"Strong or weak?"

"Strong, please. Have you got French Roast?"

"We do...I'll go ahead and use that, then." He sends an awkward smile my way, and inserts three tabledpoons of the coffee grounds into the machine. "...then you press this button, and it just does its thing for about ten minutes,"

It's been five minutes, and Mr. Stilinski offered me the crossword puzzle, claiming he never finishes them anyway. Number one across reads "What comes first, the chicken or the___?" Sloppily writing in the answer, I remember how fairly simple it is to make something. Plus, I'm drinking their coffee, I should do something to contribute.

"May I?" I ask, my palm resting on the handle of the refrigerator.

"Sure, help yourself,"

I crack five eggs over the black Teflon pan and break up the yolks from the whites.

Without looking up from the newspaper, Sheriff comments, "That's an awful lot of eggs,"

"They're for everyone...if you guys eat eggs at all..."

"Well that's rather thoughtful of you..."

I nod, then turn my attention back to the stove. The coffee maker beeps, and Mr. Stilinski stands up and pours two cups of the dark-colored liquid.

"How do you like your coffee? Cream or sugar?"

"No thanks, I drink it black." I shovel the eggs onto a plate I found in the cabinet, and set it in the middle of the round wood table.

Sheriff breaks a genuine smile. "Just like Stiles...he won't drink it if there's anything else in it."

"Oh, is that so?" I say casually, even though the mention of Stiles makes my mouth dry.

"He first started drinking coffee when he was five...brewed it up himself with the machine before me or Claudia had even read the manual. And he used the machine without directions...turns out he had been using it, washing it, then putting it back in the box so we wouldn't find out. Don't know how the kid's so tall..."

"Dad, please don't tell me you're going on about the coffee virgin story again," Stiles sighs from the doorway.

I nearly drop a plate and some forks at the sound of his voice. Stiles has obvious bedhead, and his sweatpants hang lower from his hips than I'd hoped, seeing as I'm his non-girlfriend, boarding-sister I guess you could say. Ignoring the flash of his lower back, I hand Stiles a plate, and take my seat around the small table.