Die Job by Lila Dare Read Free Book Online

parents. “A coma?” his mother said in a horrified tone, and slumped forward in a faint. The doctor and Mr. McCullers caught her before she hit the floor. A line of plum-sized plastic jack-o’-lanterns strung over the doorway wavered.
    “Guess we won’t be able to talk to the kid any time soon,” Hank said, hooking his thumbs in his utility belt. He approached his partner to tell her he was running me home. She looked over, suspicion in her dark eyes, and I remembered that she’d seemed interested in Hank the last time we met. I couldn’t think of a good way to tell her she was welcome to him, so I gave a little wave and tried to look nonthreatening. After the night’s adventures, I felt about as glamorous as a manatee and was sure I had circles under my green eyes and a pasty complexion from lack of sleep. My lightbrown hair was a tangled mess and my shirt had blood on it from when I’d tended to Braden. Apparently, I looked as bad as I felt because Officer Qualls smiled, said something to Hank, and turned back to the family member she was interviewing.
    Hank and I rode home in the patrol car in silence. The loblolly pines lining both sides of I-95 turned the highway into a dark tunnel, and traffic was light at this hour. Hank pulled into my landlady’s driveway and got out when I did. “It feels just like old times, Grace,” Hank said. “Like when we’d come home from a date and I’d walk you to the door. Remember how your mom used to flash the porch light when we were ki—”
    “It’s late and I’m beat,” I said, not wanting to encourage his romantic reminiscences. I had all those memories locked in a corner of my mind labeled: “Big Mistake. Keep Closed.” I started briskly toward my apartment, a former carriage house slightly offset from my landlady’s Victorian home.
    “Maybe I could come in for a cup of joe,” Hank hinted, catching up to me easily.
    “No.” I stopped at my door, unwilling to open it while he was there.
    He looked taken aback but recovered quickly, giving me a broad smile. “Sure. You’re tired. Another time.”
    Before I could tell him there wasn’t going to be another time, not in this life or any other where I had free will, he leaned close enough so I could smell the coffee on his breath. “Then how about a good-night kiss, for old time’s sake?”
    I stared up at him, incredulity and anger fizzing through me. “What part of ‘divorced’ don’t you get?” I asked. “Not married. Not related. Not interested.”
    He reared back like I’d slapped him and his smile turned to a sulky pout. “You know you don’t—”
    The radio attached below his left shoulder crackled to life and spouted cop talk. Hank responded and I took advantage of his momentary distraction to open my door and slip inside, closing it firmly and leaning back against it. To think that I’d been anxious to get out and about on a Saturday night, I thought wearily as Hank stomped back toward his patrol car. I should have stuck with my original plan of a DVD, ice cream, and real estate listings.
    I stepped into my small living room/dining room combo. The kitchenette sat beyond it and my bedroom was to the right. It was small, but it was more private than a unit at a huge complex and I got a break on the rent for helping Mrs. Jones with her yard and garden. Fixing myself a tuna salad sandwich, I poured a glass of milk and settled at the dinette table, too wired to sleep, despite my weariness. I eyed the packet of MLS listings, but then my gaze drifted to the box from Rothmere. Wiping my hands on a napkin, I opened it. I thought about rummaging through the box to find more letters from Clarissa but decided to enjoy the anticipation of coming across them in turn.
    I unfolded the stiff paper, conscious of the creases ironed in by time. Gently spreading it flat on the table, I glanced at the signature. Spikier and darker than Clarissa’s rounded script. I began to read.
    October 18, 1831
    Dear