Primitive Secrets by Deborah Turrell Atkinson Read Free Book Online

were more for Uncle Miles than for Rick. And they came from even deeper, from when her mother had left.
    Lani Kayama’s desperate, tear-spotted note of explanation to a twelve-year-old Storm couldn’t wring understanding from a forsaken adolescent. Storm, the adult, still felt the wounds and anger of abandonment.
    From Twelfth Avenue to Diamond Head Road, Storm drew deep, shuddering breaths. When her eyes stopped streaming, she clenched the steering wheel and forced herself to count twelve more deep breaths.
    What was commitment, anyway? Hadn’t Rick deserved that mess? Was it just her idealistic fancy that once you slept with someone, you were faithful until at least telling the other person otherwise? And what was the commitment of a parent to a child?
    Her mind skittered around that thought and she gladly steered the car to the curb in front of her home. Maybe she had been too buried in law books to keep abreast of social conventions among the single crowd.
    She was feeling a touch of remorse about the chili. Maybe it would have been better to fling open the bathroom door and watch them cope with her contemptuous glare. Some choice expressions flitted through her mind. She could always think of something she should have said after the moment. In fact, she could be brilliant a day later.
    Storm was stumbling along the flagstones to her door when Fang met her halfway, wailing. “Oh, yeah, the groceries. I promised you cat food for dinner.” Storm plodded back to her car, opened the passenger’s door, and rummaged around in the front seat. In her anger, she had thrown the grocery bags on top of one another and items now rolled around on the floor of the car. Storm dug out the food and carefully stacked everything into the bags so the greens wouldn’t be any more crushed than they already were. The cake box had frosting stuck all over the cellophane lid. Maybe she’d just eat the bloody cake for dinner, her hips be damned.
    Rational behavior was returning in sporadic bursts, although she stamped up the walk with anger toward Rick in every footfall. Behind her, in the jungle of plumeria and papaya trees that made up her front yard, she heard a door slam. The neighbors traveled so much, she never could keep track of their comings and goings. Fang followed about six feet behind. As Storm made her way to the door, the cat bawled again, louder.
    â€œDon’t be pushy. I’m not in the mood.” Hands loaded, she swiped at her cheek with a shoulder to satisfy the itch of a droplet of sweat running down the side of her face.
    The cat turned and trotted away from the house, looked back, and jogged back to Storm. She meowed again, drawing out the noise like an alley cat.
    â€œI told you, stop scolding.” Storm felt around for her house keys, glad that she’d stopped earlier to change her clothes and get out of her heeled pumps. The silk of her shirt clung to her back and sides.
    The cat got on the front step and wailed. Storm set down one bag and opened the outside screen door. It wasn’t until she had the keys pointed toward the lock of the inside door that she realized it already stood ajar.
    She froze, trying to recall what she’d done when she’d left. She’d locked the door. Fang was quiet, now, and looked up at her with eyes that glowed yellow in the fading light.

Chapter 8
    â€œLet’s get the hell out of here,” Storm said to the cat. She set the grocery bags down next to the front door and jogged back to the car.
    She drove straight to Leila’s house, where Robbie gleefully called 911. Leila insisted on going back with Storm to meet the police.
    Two cops arrived and asked Storm, Leila, and Robbie to wait outside for a few moments. After about five minutes, they called for Storm. “He’s gone. Take a look around and see if anything is missing. We’ll dust for prints, but unless the kid’s got a record, it won’t do us much