Demons are Forever: Confessions of a Demon-Hunting Soccer Mom by Julie Kenner Page B

the groceries on the counter and took my hands. “Is it Eric?”
    I balked, because that was really not a question I was expecting. “I—no,” I stammered. “I mean, why would you think it’s Eric?” Had I been putting out an “Eric” vibe? Had Allie said something?
    “It’s that time of year,” he said. “You always get a little moody.”
    “Do I? Yeah, I guess I do.” Eric had been killed in early January, right after the holidays. This year, I’d been so caught up with all of my other Eric issues—not to mention the issue of almost losing my daughter to a hell-bound demon—that I’d glossed right over my annual depression.
    I leaned forward and gave Stuart a kiss. “Thanks for being so understanding.”
    He stroked my cheek. “That’s part of the job description, remember?”
    I raised an eyebrow. “So this is the ’for worse’ part?”
    His eyes danced with mischief. “No, sweetheart, that’s your cooking.”
    I swatted him with the marshmallow bag, trying hard not to laugh. “Go, husband,” I said. “Go forth and make fire.”
    “Ugh,” he said, with appropriate caveman inflections.
    I rolled my eyes as he left, but at the same time, I realized I was grinning. Stuart might not know my past, but he did know me. More important, he knew how to make me smile.
    I watched, satisfied, as Timmy raced around like a wild thing while Stuart tried to light the fire. I had a good life, after all, with a family who loved me.
    And I couldn’t help but wonder if, by pursuing a mystery from the past, I’d be risking everything I had in front of me.
    Mornings around our house are never calm, and the first day back to school and work after a vacation are always the worst. And if I happen to have carpool duty, you can pretty much triple the insanity quotient.
    I awakened to a rousing chorus of “Elmo’s World,” performed a capella by my budding Pavarotti. The duh-duh-duh-duhs blasted through the baby monitor, and despite pulling the covers up over my ears, I knew that morning had inevitably arrived.
    Stuart elbowed me. “Jstgoengitdeboy,” he muttered.
    “You go get him,” I retorted. “My alarm hasn’t gone off yet.” Stuart’s had, though, and he’d already hit the snooze button twice. I figured I had bed equity, and I was hanging on for all it was worth.
    He groaned, then propped himself up on his elbow and blinked a few times. My husband has never been one to come awake easily. “What time is it?”
    “Seven minutes since the last time you hit the snooze button,” I said as his alarm started blaring again.
    “Shit,” he said, suddenly wide awake. “I’m running late. Can you get Timmy? The kid sounds wide awake.”
    And so the day began.
    I decided to save the battle with my clueless husband for later. Instead, I rolled out of bed, grabbed my robe, then padded down the hall to Timmy’s room. He’d started climbing out of his crib not too long ago, and we’d moved him to a toddler bed. I found him on top of it now, apparently convinced it was a trampoline.
    “I flying, Mommy!” he squealed. “I’m Super Timmy!”
    I caught him midleap. “Hey there, Super Dude. Even superheroes need breakfast. Are you hungry?”
    “Toast with butter cheese,” he demanded as I pulled off his pajama bottoms and helped him into a dry Pull-Ups.
    “Fine and dandy,” I said. For reasons I don’t actually remember, Timmy started calling margarine “butter cheese” about the time he learned to talk. Since it’s so damn cute, we haven’t bothered to correct him. So long as he gets it right before college, I figure we’re okay.
    I got him dressed, then led him to Allie’s room. I tapped once, heard nothing, then tapped again. Vague sounds of life drifted to me through the closed door. I considered that a good sign and pounded once again.
    “What?”
    “Time to get up. First day back to school. Pencils. Teachers. Books.”
    No response.
    “Cheerleading. Boys.”
    That did it. “I’m up,