Complicit by Stephanie Kuehn Read Free Book Online Page B

soldiers go into combat.”
    â€œScooter,” Cate said in a low voice. She sat up but the water kept running.
    â€œHe says Richmond is basically a war zone. All those gangs. You’re lucky to be alive.”
    â€œShut up!” Cate snapped, green eyes flashing.
    Scooter looked at me. “You said she did drugs and stuff, right?”
    I shivered. “Yeah.”
    Cate got to her feet. “ What did you just say?”
    â€œI said ‘yeah.’”
    She grabbed my arm. Roughly. “What did you say about our mom?”
    â€œNothing. I mean Scooter knows what happened to her. That she did, you know, drugs and brought str-strange men home. And that’s why she got killed.”
    Cate’s mouth fell open. Then she punched me. Right in the face.
    Scooter yelped and jumped back.
    I fell to the bathroom floor and curled up, holding my bleeding nose. “What’d you do that for?”
    â€œFor being stupid!” she screamed.
    â€œMom!” I yelled. “Mom!”
    â€œThat’s not your mom,” my sister said. “That’s Madison’s mom. And Graham’s. Not yours.”
    â€œShut up! Get out of here!”
    â€œGladly,” Cate said. But before she left, she whirled to face Scooter.
    His face went white with fear.
    â€œI’m watching you,” she snarled. “Remember that.”

FOURTEEN
    When I open my eyes the next morning, I feel deprived. Not only of sleep, but of pleasure. Cate was in my dreams, not Jenny, and this fact torments me in more ways than one. I resent my sister’s ability to worm her way into my mind, but it also feels like even my subconscious doesn’t think I should have nice things.
    Hell, maybe it’s right.
    Despite my frustrations—physical, mental, otherwise—when I get up, I know what it is I need to do. I throw on clothes and use fingers to smooth my hair. Then I look around for my wallet. It’s nowhere to be found. I tear my room apart, searching for the khakis I wore the night before. No luck. Mild swearing ensues, but when I walk outside in the cool December morning, my wallet’s right there, lying in the dew-damp driveway, totally visible from the street.
    Relieved by my own carelessness, which is a strange way to feel good, I don’t bother going back inside. Instead I slide behind the wheel of the Jeep and back right out of the driveway. As usual, it feels like I’ve gotten away with something, and seeing as I never called my neurologist to make an appointment like I told Angie I would, I guess maybe I have. I eye my hands warily.
    â€œBehave yourselves,” I tell them.
    They don’t answer.
    I head over to the Ramirez ranch, which sits at the bottom of Oak Canyon and happens to be the place my family’s black-bottomed pool overlooks. But don’t think they’re beneath us in any way more than altitude; Ramón Ramirez is one of the most renowned horse trainers in all the state, maybe even the country. His reputation and wealth are the envy of Danville.
    I bounce along the gravel drive getting my ass smacked with every groove and divot. Then I park the Jeep between the swollen creek bed and a patch of manzanita before heading up past the main barn, which has since been rebuilt to something far more than its former glory. I don’t much like looking at it, though, so I keep my head down as I pass by.
    It takes about five minutes before I find Hector in the round pen with a lip full of dip. He’s working with a dun-colored filly. She trots nervously, faster and faster, throwing her head in the air as I approach, and it’s like we both know I don’t care for horses.
    Or any animals, for that matter.
    â€œJamie Henry,” Hector says, snapping the whip in his right hand. He’s got black jeans on and a basketball jersey. “How ya doin’?”
    â€œNot good.”
    â€œWhy’s that?”
    â€œI saw your brother Danny