Chapter 2. That night, Abigail's father made meatloaf. Meatloaf was a special favorite in the

Branigan household, and it seemed clear to Abigail what her father was trying to do. It was a distraction.

He was hoping that something delicious would make his wife forget that she was still very cross

about her only daughter opening a detective

agency in the garage, and he was probably also hoping that his daughter's mouth would be too

full for her to make matters any worse. It was a peace offering, an attempt to bring the family

together in a discussion on a subject that they could all agree on, that this meatloaf was delicious.

Abigail knew it, and she was certain that our mother knew it too.

This, Abigail decided, made it an extremely bad tactic.

It was, however, extremely good meatloaf, and he made it without fanfare after working all day,

and he had to turn the oven on in June to make it happen, so for a time, everyone seemed to agree

to a truce as they sat down. The fragile piece still held, but it brought with it a stony

silence that hung over the Branigan dinner table, like the air that hangs heavy and still

before a storm breaks. Abigail looked at her plate. There were eleven green beans left, and

approximately three quarters of a piece of meatloat. There were also some mashed potatoes,

which are kind of shapeless things by definition,

and Abigail found it difficult to calculate how much of them remained,

except that it was more than she would have liked it to be.

She sighed quietly and poked a green bean with her fork.

She looked back and forth between her parents.

Her father was resolutely pretending that everything was fine, and her mother was trying to humor him. They were doing their very best silent pantomime

impression of a family dinner. Still, Abigail thought, at least they had not told the story of how

...