A Shimmer of Angels by Lisa M. Basso Read Free Book Online Page A

sleeves, and inspected my wrists.
    “Miss Evans is fine. I need to speak with your parents. Are they here?”
    I yanked my arms from Laylah’s grip. How could she think I would do that? And yet, I wanted to crawl into a corner for being responsible for putting that look on her face again.
    “My mother’s dead,” she said in a flat voice. I winced. “Dad!” She shouted through the dining room and into the kitchen behind it, then spun around and returned to the living room, where I could hear her friends whispering. Her weird, Musketeer clones dressed alike, even on the weekends, and never seemed to have an original thought or homes of their own, since they were always here.
    Dad emerged from his office behind the kitchen. When he wasn’t at work, he spent most of his time there, studying, working on side projects, and escaping. His tired-as-a-zombie look changed the moment he saw the blood on my clothes and the detective by my side.
    “Mr. Evans?”
    Dad moved faster than I’d seen in a long time. He wrapped his arms around me so tight, even my pancreas hurt.
    I hadn’t been fond of hugs since Mom’s death. It’s Dad’s form of group therapy. When one of us was caught crying—grieving—it was group-hug time. It didn’t matter where we were: living room, hallways, kitchen, even the middle of the mall. Hugs don’t make me feel any better, and they wouldn’t bring her back, so what’s the point? Hugs are torture.
    Maybe torture was the wrong word, but Mom used to say, “Go with your gut.” And my gut was telling me to run the other direction.
    “Are you okay?” He released me. I could breathe again. “What happened?”
    “I’m fine, Dad.” I hedged the truth, hoping the detective’s presence would distract Dad enough not to notice.
    “Detective Carl Rhodes.” He tucked a bag he’d grabbed from the car under his arm and removed his Stetson with one hand, offering his other to my dad. They shook. “We tried both of your contact numbers, but couldn’t get through,” Detective Rhodes filled in.
    I would have rather crawled into a hole than be here for this conversation.
    Dad stuttered for a moment. “My youngest was on the house line, and I was on a business call.” His voice was racked with guilt. “What the hell happened?”
    “Can we speak privately, Mr. Evans?” Detective Rhodes asked.
    “Of course.” Dad gestured toward his office.
    “Rayna.” The detective handed me the plastic zip bag tucked under his arm. It looked large enough to hold a Cocker Spaniel. “I’ll need your clothes for evidence.”
    Dad spun his wedding ring around on his finger and cast an uneasy glance at me. Worry wrinkled his brow. And I knew Dad was seeing me the same as he always had: as a victim, as poor, crazy Rayna.
    I accepted the bag. It’s just standard procedure , I told myself. It was a suicide, and you discovered the body. They can’t think you had anything to do with it . I jiggled the bag in my hand nervously, trying hard to believe my inner self’s logic. My shaking knees called me a liar.
    I blew through the living room as fast as I could, passing Laylah and her two friends dominating the couch. Their eyes were glazed, their mouths wide, as they took in MTV’s newest pop-princess.
    I fumbled up the stairs and burst into the bathroom. Instead of being alone with my thoughts, I riffled through my backpack for my iPod and jammed it into the small speaker Laylah and I argued over every morning, cranking up the most upbeat album I could find. I turned the shower knobs, letting a few drops from the showerhead wet the soil of my favorite orchid before I moved the purple phalaenopsis back onto the windowsill.
    My jeans stuck to me in the places where Allison’s blood had dried. I sat on the brown, fuzzy toilet seat cover and peeled them off, then shoved them into the evidence bag. He didn’t expect me to include my backpack, did he? He’d said “clothes.” Nothing about my backpack, though it, too,