Dark Halo (An Angel Eyes Novel) by Shannon Dittemore Read Free Book Online Page B

fingers that it all pans out.
    And he knows what it’s like when the foundation your dream is built on crumbles.
    “It’s a kind thing to do, Liv. A great idea. Really.”
    “Yeah, well. Don’t go all sappy on me. For now that’s all it is. An idea. The board doesn’t even know I bought it.”
    “Don’t you need permission?”
    Another shrug. “I do what I want, and the board usually backs me. It’s when projects go astray that they leave me high and dry.”
    “Happen often?”
    “No,” she says, a wicked little smile curling the right corner of her mouth. “Not often.”
    “So that’s where we’re heading? Bellwether? Why?”
    She stabs at the radio, snapping the nail on her index finger. She curses and jams the injured finger into her mouth.
    “Liv, why are we going to Bellwether?”
    “I’m letting the old couple rent the keeper’s house back fromme for now,” she says, her voice muffled over the finger. “Mostly because I’m in love with their salted caramel truffles. You’re going to die when you taste them. Gosh, that hurts,” she says, withdrawing the finger and prodding it with her thumb.
    “Liv . . .” He takes her hand in both of his. “Why Bellwether?”
    “Your hands are clammy,” she says.
    “Liv, please.”
    “I have a business meeting, okay?” She tugs her hand away and cranks the radio up, stabbing at it until she finds an obnoxious hip-hop station.
    Marco shouts over the music, “And you need me there because . . . ?”
    “I don’t,” she calls. “But road trips are more fun with a friend. You are my friend, right?”
    “Liv . . .”
    “Let it go for now, Marco, okay? I’m driving. I want you with me. Can’t that be enough?”
    She’s used to being in charge. He can tell that by the set of her jaw, by the tiny lift in her brows. She’ll do whatever it takes to get her way too. It’s the seductive pout of her lips that tells him that.
    “You promised me Henry,” he says, turning the radio down.
    “Henry’s dying, Marco. Take me instead.”
    A thrill slides up his spine. The curve of her cheek, the bright caramel of her " aid="AFMAQ">

7
    Brielle
    W hen I walk into the kitchen, Miss Macy’s still here. Her hip is pressed against the granite island, a dish towel thrown over her shoulder. Good. I was counting on her sticking around. What is a little shocking is the presence of Pastor Noah. Dad’s not a fan of the guy, and this makes twice in the past week the pastor has braved my kitchen. His wife, Becky, is here too. Tall and lean, her brunette hair curling under at the shoulders.
    Dad squints at me from a barstool. His head is wrapped with a clean bandage. One hand holds a steaming mug of coffee, and with the other he pops a pill.
    “Close the door, baby,” he says. “That sunlight’s a killer.”
    I close the door and let the dim kitchen light settle around me. I’m sure Dad’s headache is a result of several things: the alcohol he managed to down yesterday before I trashed what was left in the fridge, the wound he sustained when Damien flung him into the television, the talon he took to the shoulder, and the Sabres’ worship that, for reasons passing understanding, Dad can hear. He’s allowed a little grumpiness, I guess. I glance again at the coffee cup. At least he’s sober.
    “We’d like to talk to you, Brielle,” Pastor Noah says.
    I drop the pictures on the island next to Dad’s elbow. The envelope’s a little worse for wear now and it opens, the snapshots spilling across the granite.
    “Good. ’Cause I’d like to talk to you too.”
    “What are these?” Becky asks.
    “Pictures of you all,” I say. “And of Mom.”
    The kitchen turns into a chorus of oohs and ahhs as they pass around snapshots that are a decade and a half old. After dancing for hours in the heat and light of the Celestial, I’m exhausted, but impatience battles for dominance over my drooping eyes and throbbing legs. I’m short on time and need answers.
    And