Blood Ties by Lori G. Armstrong Read Free Book Online Page B

windshield in streaks of quicksilver.

    “Like someone wearing a big, fl ashing sign saying, ‘I killed Samantha Friel’?”

    Kevin’s sense of humor escapes me at times. “On TV
    the killer always goes to the funeral,” I pointed out.

    56

    “On TV the ace detective wraps up the case in an hour.” He drew my hand back to his, idly stroking the bone on the inside of my wrist. “Real life ain’t TV, babe.”

    Th
    e actuality hit me then. Th
    is wasn’t make-believe, a
    fi ctional primetime show where I played the part of Nancy Drew, stumbling around for clues. I was about to question a grieving mother on the violent death of her child. Kevin steadied my hand when I fumbled with a cigarette, holding the lighter to the tip as I inhaled.

    “I don’t know if I can do this.”

    “I need you to do this. It’s important.”

    “You’re coming with me?” He nodded and rolled down the passenger window a crack. “What should I ask her?”

    “Get her to talk to you about Samantha, fi nd out what she remembers from their visits in the last month.”

    I exhaled out the window. Kevin hated my smoking but never complained, so I tried to be polite. “If she won’t?”

    “She will.” His determined mouth softened. “Come on, Jules. Remember how you felt when Ben died? How everyone avoided discussing him? Grief needs an outlet.
    She’ll help us.”

    As much as hiding in the trunk appealed, I said,
    “Let’s go.”

    Th
    e main lobby had the impersonal, sterile atmosphere I associated with hospitals. We signed the logbook at the receptionist’s area and she disappeared behind a glass partition. We waited in silence, afraid to sit on the matchy, 57
    matchy gray and mauve sofas, furniture store art hung pre-cisely above. Kevin paced and I perched on an end table.
    Muzak drifted from hidden speakers. Normally I tune it out, but forcing myself to listen calmed my nerves. I challenged Kevin: “Name the song.”

    He cocked his head. “Easy. ‘Super Freak’, Rick James.”

    “Wrong.” Kevin and I’ve had “Name Th
    at Tune” wars
    since high school. Our musical tastes are similar and we’re evenly matched, but smugness encircled me like a secret cloak, knowing I had him cold. “Five?”

    “You’re on. What do you think it is?”

    “I know it is ‘Der Kommissar’.” I hummed a few bars.
    “Listen and pay up, bub.”

    He listened again, cursing me when I sang along. “Bet you don’t know who sang it.”

    “You really want to give me all your money today?”
    “You’re
    bluffi
    ng.”

    “I never bluff . Okay. Double or nothing?” He nodded. I snatched the fi ve from his fi ngers and held my palm out for more. “After Th
    e Fire. Pay up and repeat, ‘Julie is
    the master’.”

    “Julie is a master . . .” He paused and grinned,
    “Bator.” He wadded up another fi ve and tossed it at me just as a stout woman resembling a warden exited the locked double doors.

    “Follow me.” I traipsed behind her and stuck my tongue out at Kevin. He tapped me none too gently on 58
    the butt and hissed a vile suggestion in my ear. My nerves quieted. At least he and I were back on track even when it felt as if we were about to board a runaway train.

    A spacious corridor twisted past rooms with the shades drawn. Th
    e beige walls were devoid of the inspirational posters I connected with self-help programs. When we stopped at an empty room, my heart sped up.

    Kevin squeezed my shoulder, seating me on the right side of a conference table. He fl ipped open a small notebook and settled next to me.

    I thought I was fi ne, I thought I was ready; I thought I might actually pull this off , until Shelley entered the room.

    She looked old. Stringy hair, toothpick arms and legs, sallow complexion, slightly distended beer belly. Th e years
    of drinking hadn’t been particularly kind to her, but the lines on her face weren’t as unsettling as her eyes. Th ey
    held defeat; a woman who’s seen the best