Don’t Talk to Strangers: A Novel by Amanda Kyle Williams Read Free Book Online Page A

mysterious.”
    “It’s a consulting job,” I told him. I didn’t offer details. This kind of case would
     bother Jimmy. “County sheriff wants some advice on a repeat offender case. Sounds
     like he needs someone to interpret the evidence, translate it in practical terms.
     And it sounds like he’s short on detectives. I’m cheap. And apparently less intrusive
     than the Bureau.”
    “So it’s a murder thing?”
    I nodded. “Two bodies found in the woods. Thirteen years old.”
    Jimmy’s eyebrows knotted up. “I don’t understand how someone could hurt a child. Or
     an animal. I just don’t.”
    “This kind of person, they’re not like us, Jimmy. They don’t think about the victim.”
     We sat there a minute while that hung in the air. Jimmy pushed the shitty muffin back
     to me.
    “You’re going to a meeting like that?”
    “I’m serving divorce papers. The guy has no idea. Thinks he’smeeting his wife.” I pulled up the leg of my sweatpants and peeled off the envelope
     I’d banded around my calf in a plastic bag so I wouldn’t lose it while running. “He
     won’t care what I’m wearing.”
    “Wow. Great way to start his day. You feel good about it?”
    I dumped the envelope out and left the plastic bag and two thick rubber bands on the
     table, got up, kissed my brother’s cheek. “Next time, I’ll jump out of a cake. Make
     it fun for him.”
    I crossed the street to The Flying Biscuit on a blinking WALK light, holding the divorce papers Latisha had picked up for me yesterday.
    The breakfast crowd was streaming in. Another half an hour and there would be a waiting
     list. The host, a young guy with longish hair and jeans, met me with a menu in his
     hand. “I’m meeting someone,” I told him.
    “Is that him in the corner?”
    I recognized Edward Dabato from the photo in his file. “That’s him. Thanks.” I walked
     to a small table where he sat alone with a glass of orange juice and a cup of coffee.
     He was reading a menu. “Mr. Dabato?”
    Flat brown eyes lifted to me. Suspicious eyes. Maybe he was expecting this after all.
     I pulled out a chair and sat down so we could keep it nice and quiet. “I’m afraid
     your wife isn’t coming, sir.” I pushed the envelope across the table. He picked it
     up and read the return address of the family lawyer who had hired me. I saw the moment
     when the veil came down, when his eyes showed something, when he realized a few things
     about his life and his wife he hadn’t known before. Man, this is a shitty job sometimes.
     “You’ve been served. I’m sorry.”
    Dabato stood up very calmly, tucked the envelope with the divorce papers under his
     arm, hooked thick fingers under the edge of the table, then flipped it in a surprisingly
     violent, jerky movement. Everything on top came sliding at me. Orange juice splattered
     my lap. Hot coffee stung my thighs. The mug and glass hit the tile and shattered.
    The restaurant went silent. A saltshaker rolled across the floor. Dabato gave me a
     last hard look and stalked out. I snatched a handful of napkins off the table next
     to me and blotted my sweatpants while the breakfast crowd, the host, the servers,
     all stared.
    “What?”
I huffed. “You people really need to think about cloth napkins.”
    I hobbled out with as much dignity as I could muster in wet sweatpants that made me
     look like a candidate for adult diapers. It was going to be a long walk home.

5
    Rauser was blasting out the door when I came down my tenth-floor hall, shoulder holster
     over a white shirt, a blue blazer draped over his arm, and an electric shaver in his
     hand. I saw him take in my damp clothes and the yellow-brown coffee stain on the crotch
     of the sweatpants. An eyebrow came up. “Can’t wait to hear this.”
    I gave him the short version. “I had a little spill.”
    He grinned. “I see that. You heading out to the boonies?” He knew the details—I’d
     explained last night while we walked