Girl of Rage by Charles Sheehan-Miles Read Free Book Online Page A

say something to Adelina with just the right tone and she would go silent. Terrified of her husband. A husband Meredith knew was cold as ice. They’d been acquaintances over the years—friends even. But they’d never gotten too close. The Thompsons weren’t people you got that close to, because it was clear that they only opened up so far.
    She sucked in a breath and took a sip of her coffee. Then she said, “Leslie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to overhear anything, and what I did overhear was none of my business. I trust you. I know you’ll do what’s right.”
    Leslie looked at her and said, “You’re going to see a lot in the papers in the next few days and weeks about them. Things that will seem crazy—even unbelievable. Do you understand?”
    She nodded. “I do.”
    “Trust me, Meredith.”
    “Of course.”
    He took her hand and gave her a smile. But it wasn’t warm. Then he turned away, walking back to his office down the hall. Undoubtedly, he would close the soundproof door.
    She turned back toward the window. The barest edge of the sunrise was visible above the trees, just a slight lightening of the sky. In another hour it would be completely light. Leslie would be gone to work by then, and she had a meeting this morning to plan the annual Tour of Homes.
    Time to put Richard Thompson and his family out of her mind.
     

Crank. May 2. 9:25 am.
    Crank’s eyes jerked open when he felt the wheels of the plane touch down with a loud screech, the tiny jet bouncing and bumping down the runway at Stafford Regional Airport forty miles south of Washington, DC. Instantly awake and craving a cigarette, he slid up the plastic window cover and looked outside.
    The sky was ominous, banks of grey and black clouds forming a roof above them. It had been nearly one o’clock in the morning in California before they finally got off the ground, and the second half of the flight had been interrupted by stomach-wrenching turbulence. Five and a half hours later, plus three time zones, and it was already mid-morning here.
    Across the aisle from him, Julia stirred, sitting up. Crank looked outside as the plane taxied to the end of the runway and turned to the left. From here he could see Interstate 95, which they would take to get into the DC area.
    It was a parking lot. Lines of cars were backed up, unmoving, as far as the eye could see. A moment later the plane turned again to taxi back toward the general aviation terminal, and the view shifted to blissful, peaceful woods, hangers and warehouses. No traffic. Sometimes ignorance was bliss. Soon enough, Crank would be stuck in that traffic.
    “What time is it?” Julia groaned. This despite the fact that she already had her phone out and was checking her email.
    Crank didn’t answer. He recognized the expression already on her face—a line, slightly off center, creasing her forehead. She was irritated about something.
    “What the hell?” she muttered. She started dialing her phone.
    “Problems?” Anthony said.
    Crank looked back over his shoulder. The Washington Post reporter was sitting in the seat behind Crank, covering his mouth as he yawned. His eyes were red and puffy.
    “I don’t know,” Crank replied. “Seems like everything’s problems lately.”
    He stopped talking as Julia finally reached whoever she’d been calling.
    “Mary, it’s Julia. Talk to me.”
    Quiet, as Julia listened. Her expression grew more severe, then in a high pitched, strained tone she said, “What do you mean they’re taking everything?”
    Crank met Anthony’s eyes. That didn’t sound good at all. It wasn’t the sort of thing he’d ever discuss with a reporter, but they had been shot at and nearly blown up together the previous night. If he couldn’t trust Anthony Walker at this point, they had even bigger problems than he’d imagined.
    The plane came to a stop, lined up with other jets of similar size. Julia immediately unbuckled her seat and stood, walking a few paces behind