Forgiven by Jana Oliver Read Free Book Online Page B

important, then you keep an eye on her, you hear? Do not let her get hurt or you’ll have me to deal with. Yes, that’s Peter King in case you’re taking notes.’
    Any other time she would have found that hilarious, but Peter’s tone told her not to laugh at him. She gave him the number of her new phone and after more fretting and fussing he finally he gave her hug, told her he’d be back at seven thirty in the morning, then took off. A few minutes later she heard the sound of a car starting, then there was silence.
    ‘You’re such a cool guy,’ she whispered.
    It was a typical Atlanta night in early February – cold and dark with stars in the clear night sky. The time passed much like it did in the graveyard when she’d been watching over her father – edging along like an arthritic turtle.
    Peter’s worried ‘status check’ calls finally tapered off after one a.m. From his hushed voice, it sounded like her confession had taken something out of him. She knew he’d never see her the same way. How could he? She’d hooked up with Hell and lived to tell the tale.
    As the night passed, Riley see-sawed between two poles: first she chewed herself out for being so naïve, then cursed the angel for being a lying rat with wings.
    I should have listened to Beck.
    Weary from the mental self-flagellation, she dozed fitfully until a pair of addicts launched into a heated discussion about the fascist police state and how their individual freedom to get totally jacked on meth was being infringed upon. It involved a lot of shouting and ‘f’ words. Riley clutched a broken brick and waited for them to try to negotiate the stairs. They didn’t bother, but eventually wandered off, leaving her in peace.
    ‘Maybe Heaven does listen to Peter,’ she said.
    Riley would have slept through the next delivery if the twin slams of a truck’s doors hadn’t woken her. She groggily peered over the top of the low wall and found guys hurriedly unloading bottles into a huge wire basket on wheels. Once the basket was full, two men pulled it inside the plant. Another empty basket and even hastier unloading.
    She tried to take a picture, then remembered the lens cap. After clicking a few shots, Riley fired up the video recorder and let it run. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary other than one of the men was extremely nervous, pacing around as he watched the street. As the last batch of bottles went into the building, she yawned. It was good her BFF was at home in bed: at least one of them would get a decent night’s sleep.
    To her surprise, the wire basket contraption appeared in the doorway again, this time loaded with bottles that were swiftly moved into the back of the truck.
    ‘So what’s this?’ Maybe they were taking the processed bottles to the bottling plant in Doraville. It was open 24/7.
    Though she felt it was a complete waste of time, Riley took video of the bottles being transferred into the truck. When it was full, the loaders drove away in a haze of exhaust fumes. She was too far away to make out the licence plate number. The whole operation had taken about twenty minutes.
    Riley curled up in the blanket. As she fell asleep, she issued a silent prayer that she didn’t have to stay on the run the rest of her life.
    Riley . . .
    The dream woke her again, this time near dawn. This time Ori’s voice was clearer, more distinct. He was still at his post at the edge of the minefield, insistent that she trust him to save her. Someone else had taken Lucifer’s place and that person’s face was indistinct. Riley strained to identify the stranger, feeling it important somehow, but the dream ended abruptly. She woke to a cold and an aching body courtesy of the hard roof.
    With difficulty, she sat up and leaned back against the wall, her eyes drifting closed again. In the faint reaches of her mind Ori’s voice kept calling her name. Riley shook her head to clear it and the sound faded.
    I’m going crazy.
    Peter pulled up to