Relatively Risky by Pauline Baird Jones Read Free Book Online Page B

should be here soon—ah, yes, here he came.
    He moved through the garden with surprising grace for a man who had none, for one so different from her beautiful, dead son. He was not really a man at all. He was a hammer and he did not know it.
    He didn’t knock, just slipped in a gap in the door, then shut it behind him with a care unusual in a hammer.
    She didn’t look at him. One didn’t look at tools unless one had to. “It’s done.”
    â€œIt’s done.” He was terse. “Loose ends tied.”
    She liked him terse. Was pleased he knew it. She looked then, bestowing approval. It would be his only reward. A pity, but he’d become a weak link, a loose end.
    â€œYou saw it.”
    He nodded, something flickering over his usually blank face.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThere was a contact—” He frowned. “I took a picture with my cell.” He extracted it, tapped the screen a couple of times, then handed it to her.
    She stared down at the tiny screen, adjusting it until the blur cleared. The tableau was small, but the body language was interesting. She knew every nuance of Phin’s. She’d had so many years to study him. She messed with it until his companion came into view—her whole body went stiff. How had he found out? She’d been so sure he hadn’t—clever bastard. He’d given no sign. None.
    â€œHow…interesting.” She directed a look at him. “I think, yes, I very much think I need you to do one more thing for me today, dear boy.”
    â€œOf course.” His face was impassive, but his eyes gave him away.
    She smiled at him, the mothering one that made him stupid. Tools sometimes needed that extra care to do their best. “I do not, I really do not know what I’d do without you.”

3
    A lex woke with a jerk , the sun stabbing through the gaps in the blinds into his eyes. He muttered a curse. Looked at the crooked wall clock. Four hours of sleep wasn’t going to do it. He closed his eyes but it was too late. Tired but not sleepy. How did that work? He sat up. Rubbed his eyes. The silence of the house didn’t soothe. Why should it? He’d been raised in chaos, probably forever ruined by it. A quick shower took the edge off tired. He already had a bunch of texts from the sibs about his early morning adventure, which for some reason made him think about Eleanor Whitby.
    He should have mulled the crazy parts, but found himself stuck remembering her eyes. Wondering what it was about them that he couldn’t forget. Not that he was interested in her or anything. Curious. Yeah, that’s what he was. Curious was logical. Curious was not even first cousins with interested.
    He left his room, did a quick scan for life signs. His dad was still out. That felt normal. He opened the fridge. Shut it again. Not pretty. He should go eat. Maybe if he saw her, he could figure out why she bothered him, put it—and her—to rest for good. He did need to get her statement. Okay, someone did. Technically he was the victim, not the arresting officer, even though he’d made the collar. Still debating with himself, he went outside, unlocked his truck—most useless act of the day so far—brushed the glass off the seat, and got in. Made a mental note to do something about the window before his radio disappeared. He drove the few blocks to her address, arguing the pros and cons of seeing her again. She had perp-fans and wrote what looked like kids’ books. The fact he was thinking of her as anything but a witness almost made him drive past—but there was a great parking place in front, right on St. Charles. That never happened. He had to take it, if only to be able to tell the story later. And he could save some poor slob in a uniform from having to get her statement. Yeah, that was it. He was doing a favor for a fellow officer.
    He approached the double wood doors of the rather imposing house.