Accused by Mark Gimenez Read Free Book Online

surge. On September 13, 2008, Hurricane Ike washed away the West End of Galveston Island. Exclusive beach-front subdivisions became streets of homeless stilts, as if God had dropped a box of giant toothpicks that had fallen to earth and embedded in the sand. The surviving houses held a lonely vigil on the desolate beach. In 1528, the Spanish explorer Cabeza de Vaca shipwrecked on Galveston Island and soon dubbed his new home the Isla de Malhado —the Island of Misfortune.
    The title still fit.
    Scott had rented one of those survivors for $2,000 a month, half the going price before Ike. It was out past the condos and hotels and fishing piers off San Luis Pass Road, a two-story house on stilts with six bedrooms and four baths right on the beach. He parked the Jetta in the shade of the house. It was just after three.
    "Look—the beach!" Boo said.
    Galveston Beach was not white sand and blue water with sleek cigarette boats cutting through the waves like in Florida. The sand was tan, the water brown, and the boats oil and cargo tankers heading to the Ship Channel and the Port of Houston. But it was still a beach, something not found in Dallas.
    The girls bailed out and ran to the sand.
    Bobby parked the Prius behind the Jetta. He had followed Scott Fenney since ninth grade, like a young boy follows an older brother. Even during the eleven-year gap when Scotty had left him for Ford Stevens and a Highland Park mansion, Bobby had followed him in the society pages and business section of the newspaper. Now he had followed him to Galveston to defend his ex-wife charged with murdering the man she had run off with. He had tried to get Scotty to think it through, but he had said he had no choice: she needed him. He was going to Galveston. Bobby couldn't let him go alone. Bobby Herrin was either loyal to a fault or he had a serious worship thing going.
    Scott shielded his eyes from the sun and watched the girls on the beach. He turned back when Bobby got out of the Prius and said, "Forty-seven miles to the gallon, Scotty—doing seventy."
    A born-again hybrid driver. Bobby helped Karen out of the car. Her belly seemed bigger than when they had left Dallas. She had a funny expression on her face.
    "Another accident?" Bobby said.
    She nodded. Bobby turned to Scott.
    "Every time she laughs or cries, she pees her pants. She wears adult diapers now."
    Karen was now the girls' de facto mother. They—and Scott—relied on her for the motherly touch, even though she was still two months away from being a mother.
    "They're really not that bad," she said. "Although they do crawl up—"
    The roar of a massive engine drowned out her voice and the image of her diaper crawling up from Scott's mind. The black Dodge Charger screeched to a stop, windows down and music blaring. Louis was singing along like a rock band's groupie, and Carlos was playing the drums with two pencils on the dashboard. Bobby shook his head.
    "Five hours in a car without air-conditioning—the heat got to them."
    Scott checked again on the girls. They were splashing through the surf. He cupped his mouth and yelled, "Stay where I can see you!"
    The concert abruptly ended. Louis climbed out of the Charger and headed to the beach with a book in hand. Duty called.
    "I got 'em," he said.
    Next to the house was a concrete basketball court, apparently the neighborhood playground when there was still a neighborhood. Under the house was an open garage. Scott counted four stilts in, then reached up and found the house key right where the rental service had said it would be. They climbed stairs to a deck overlooking the beach with chairs and a table with an umbrella. A digital thermometer mounted on the frame of a sliding glass door read "88" but the sea breeze made the air seem cooler. Scott unlocked the door and entered the house. Inside was a spacious room with a kitchen at one end and a living area with a big-screen television at the other. Two bedrooms with private baths were on that