Let Me Go by Chelsea Cain Read Free Book Online Page B

check on that birthday present.”
    He ended the call and put the phone in his pocket. Then he loaded his gun and clipped the holster to the waistband of his pants. He smiled to himself. Now he looked like James Bond.
    Lastly, Archie headed into the bathroom. He opened his medicine chest and pulled out a large amber prescription bottle marked PRILOSEC and tapped out ten Vicodin into his palm. He’d been clean, more or less, for a year, and while he’d been in rehab, Henry had done a banner job rooting through Archie’s apartment and disposing of every pain pill he could find. But the one place that people never looked was right in plain sight. All Archie had done was switch out the pills. If his stomach ever started burning and he needed a Prilosec he was screwed.
    He didn’t use the pills. He just liked knowing they were there. Now he gently transferred the Vicodin into his old brass pillbox. It had been a long time since he’d carried that thing around in his pocket, but if he was going to play the role of the self-destructive detective, he needed the right props.
    Archie gave the pillbox a shake. The familiar sound of the pills rattling against the metal confines of the box made his mouth water. But he swallowed hard and tucked the pillbox in the pocket of his tux.
    He glanced at his watch. He’d been forty-two years old for seven minutes now.
    So far, so good.

 
    CHAPTER
    8
    Â 
    Susan’s mother didn’t allow her to smoke in the house. Marijuana was fine. Bliss kept her bong right out in the open on the coffee table like a decorative sculpture. Incense? No problem. Bliss bought it by the case, filling the whole house with a thick cherry-flavored smog. But when Susan wanted to smoke a cigarette, she had to do it on the porch.
    Susan got it. Weed was natural; cigarettes were cancer. Incense smelled nice; cigarettes didn’t. Plus, it was Bliss’s house, so she got to make the rules. Susan may have grown up in the dilapidated Victorian, but it wasn’t like her name was on the mortgage. She had moved back in with her mother while she was saving up to buy a place, then she had lost her job at the Herald . The freelancing gigs were too unpredictable to sign any kind of lease. And her credit report wasn’t exactly star renter material.
    So here she was. Getting cancer on her mother’s porch. Bliss was at work, dyeing someone’s Mohawk pink or something. Only in Portland, Oregon, did punk rockers go in for a root touch-up and a blow-out. Bliss was the go-to stylist for the rage-against-the-machine set. It made for interesting hours.
    Susan tapped her cigarette ash into the jack-o’-lantern on the top porch step. The jack-o’-lantern had squinty eyes and a round, surprised mouth. Susan’s jack-o’-lanterns never turned out as spooky as she intended. She pulled the hood of her sweatshirt up and checked her phone to see if Leo had texted her back yet. He hadn’t.
    She heard the car pull in front of the house and looked up. It was black and sleek and official-looking, like one of those town cars rich people hire to take them to the airport instead of just getting a cab like everyone else.
    The car sat there for a minute. The windows were tinted and Susan couldn’t see inside. She stared at it anyway. Maybe Johnny Depp was inside.
    Finally, the driver’s-side door opened and a huge man climbed out and started up the walk toward Susan. He was carrying a bouquet of pink roses, and was very definitely not Johnny Depp.
    Susan continued to stare. He led with his chest when he walked, and moved at a quick, confident clip, his huge arms at his side. His long dark gray hair flapped at the shoulders of his dark leather jacket.
    She recognized him. She didn’t know him. She had never been introduced to him. But she had seen him around. He was one of several men who always seemed at the periphery when she went out with Leo. He’d be at a nearby