That night, as I arrived home, I felt the familiar tingling in the base of my skull that told me
my dad was back. I found him in the kitchen, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, leaning
over a bubbling soup pot. Scratch sat by his feet, no doubt hoping for scraps. I smiled at the
picture of domesticity.
"How was New York?" I asked, coming up to hug him from behind.
"Boring," he replied. "How were things here?"
"Good. Nothing burned down."
"But we were almost robbed," he pointed out, wrinkling his nose as he tasted the soup.
"Needs more salt."
"'Almost' being the key word. I took care of it. Besides, it was just a comic. And you know I
hate it when you poke around in my head," I grumbled, bending down to scratch under my
cat's chin. Dad chuckled good-naturedly.
"You'd never tell me anything otherwise," he laughed. "Here…taste this." I forced myself to
swallow the spoonful he fed me.
"Needs pepper. And seasoning. What kind of stock did you use?"
He looked down at the pot despairingly. I hid my growing grin.
"How about we just order pizza?"
I dumped my bag on a chair while dad poured the failed soup attempt down the sink. It was
then that I remembered I had brought the notepad back with me. Rummaging for it, I finally
located it under my phone and keys. I flipped to the page where the boy had scribbled out
his contact details and read the name written there: Aden Conley.
"By the way, someone came in today asking about Kitchener's series. Do you know when
he's releasing the next book?"
"You know as well as I do that the man's unpredictable," said my dad, as he searched for the
takeout menus. "Did this someone leave a name?"
"Yeah. Aden Conley."
Dad looked back at me, questioningly.
"Conley?"
I held out the notepad.
"I got him to leave his number too."
He took the notepad from me, scanned the page and nodded absently.
"I'll give him a call when we get it. Now, deep dish or stuffed crust?"