Looking for Laura by Judith Arnold Page A

director’s chair stood in one corner of the room, and Sally dragged it over to the desk and sat beside Todd. In the bright light of his desk lamp, she could see the fatigue that creased the skin around his eyes, the stubble of beard that darkened his jaw, the twitch at the corner of his mouth, a sign of annoyance or tension or both.
    â€œWhat is it?” she asked, angling her head to view the screen. A column of names and numbers appeared.
    â€œLooks like phone numbers,” Todd said, scrolling down the monitor as he scanned the names. “No one named Laura on the list.”
    â€œMaybe Laura was her nickname. Or the pet name he used for her.”
    Todd snorted. “Did Paul ever use pet names?”
    â€œNever.” He even called Rosie Rose most of the time. He’d complained more than once that Sally sounded more like a nickname than a real name. He’d asked why her mother couldn’t have named her Sarah, and Sally had suggested that he ask her mother himself. She knew he never would. He considered her mother several castes below him—which she was, but he hadn’t had to be so snooty about it. He’d spoken a few words to her at their wedding, but otherwise he’d pretended the woman didn’t exist.
    At least her mother wasn’t a hypocrite. At least she didn’t collect florid letters from a lover and hide them inside a brown sweater.
    Todd opened another file on the disk. More phone numbers. “Who are all these people?” he wondered aloud.
    â€œClients?”
    â€œDoubtful. He would have kept his clients’ phone numbers with their files, not in a separate list.”
    Sally skimmed the list. “There aren’t any female names on there at all,” she observed. “I’ll bet that’s his alumni list from his old prep school. He was class something-or-other.”
    â€œSomething-or-other?” Todd twisted in his chair to look at her.
    â€œVice president or secretary. I know he wasn’t president. It really steamed him that he wasn’t.”
    â€œAll right.” Todd pulled the diskette out of the computer and inserted another. When he loaded it, the screen filled with a blaze of color, and thumping music—drums followed by a noodly melody—emerged tinnily from the speakers flanking the monitor. “What the hell—?”
    â€œIt’s a game,” Sally guessed. “Arch-Enemies.”
    â€œYou’re kidding.” Todd gaped at the monitor as the colors exploded with kaleidoscopic effect. “What was he doing with a computer game at work?”
    Sally shrugged.
    Through the speakers came the sound of a man howling in the final throes of some fatal agony. Todd removed that disk and inserted another. More pounding drums and a squeaky, whiny melody.
    â€œMommy?” Rosie hollered up the stairs. Her footsteps merged with the drumbeats. “Mommy, are you playing DragonKeeper?”
    â€œIs that what this is?” Todd muttered.
    Sally nodded and turned in time to see Rosie enter the room. “We’re not playing it, Rosie. Daddy’s friend just wanted to see what was on this diskette.”
    â€œI know how to play DragonKeeper.” She darted to the desk, her eyes round and glowing rapturously as an animated dragon filled the screen, exhaling flames through its nostrils. “Press control and an arrow key,” she instructed Todd. “It’ll get you to the setup.”
    â€œI don’t want to get to the setup,” he told her.
    â€œBut it’s a cool game. Set it up, Daddy’s Friend. I’ll show you.” She didn’t wait for Todd to follow her orders, but instead scrambled onto his lap and hit the control and arrow keys herself. The dragon disappeared, replaced by a screen of writing.
    Todd peered helplessly at Sally. “Get her off my lap,” he mouthed.
    â€œShe wants to play,” Sally whispered.
    â€œ I don’t want to