Sing Sweet Nightingale by Erica Cameron Read Free Book Online

halls. I wonder how she knows where I’m from for a second, but then I remember she made a copy of my license. She raises one eyebrow when I don’t answer right away. “Or is that another long story?”
    “All part of the same long story, actually.” I hold the door to the parking lot open, and she turns with me when I walk toward the Camaro.
    “Well, I know you probably have a ton going on getting settled and everything, but here.”
    She passes me a Post-it with a phone number written under the name K.T. Dowling. “I’m basically the one-woman high school welcoming committee.” She sighs and shakes her head, but her eyes are crinkled in the corners with hidden laughter. “I don’t know what they’re going to do if new kids show up after I graduate.”
    Turning the square of yellow paper in my hand, I bite back the questions I want to ask. How the hell do you bring demons into a conversation without sounding like you escaped an institution? Better to leave it for now.
    I pull out my phone, dial her number, and press call . Her phone starts buzzing, and she smiles as she hits end .
    “There might be something going on this weekend,” she says as we approach the edge of the lot, scanning it like she’s looking for someone. “Don’t know what or where, but someone will probably throw something—”
    K.T. stops dead in her tracks, her eyes locked on Horace’s car.
    “Holy crap,” she mutters, eyes wide. “Is that a ’69 Camaro SS?”
    I glance back at her as I unlock the door. “Yeah. You know cars?”
    She shakes her head, her lips trembling. “Just this one.”
    Her reaction is too strong to be normal. People don’t usually get choked up at the sight of a car. There’s something about this car specifically that freaks her out.
    It takes a second for her to smile, but she forces the expression onto her face. “It’s my sister’s favorite car.”
    But she doesn’t look happy to see it.
    “Oh.” My chest aches. I don’t have to ask to know something bad happened. “I’m sorry.”
    K.T. glances at me out of the corner of her eye, and her mouth tenses. “She didn’t die.” She says it like she’s not sure if it’s true. “She’s been in a coma for four years.”
    “My…” I close my eyes for a second. Can I say it? I haven’t said it aloud more than a handful of times. Haven’t had to. Horace knew about J.R. when he came looking for me, and I’ve barely spoken to anyone else in the past few months. Certainly not about J.R.
    Swallowing, I try again. “My little brother died a few months ago.”
    When I open my eyes, K.T. is watching me. Her expression is blank—the careful blankness of someone who’s used to keeping people from seeing their pain—but the knowledge is in her eyes. She gets it. She knows what it’s like to lose someone you love.
    “Sometimes I’m not sure if that would be easier or harder,” she says.
    I nod as the ragged edges around the wound of J.R.’s death burn. Which is worse? Losing someone entirely or going years without knowing if the person you love will ever recover? Sometimes hope can cut worse than loss. But at the same time, at least you have hope.
    A silver sedan pulls into the parking lot and honks twice. K.T. looks up and shakes herself off, her smile returning. It’s forced, but it’s there.
    “Well, on that bright note, it’s nice to meet you, Hudson. Maybe I’ll see you this weekend.”
    She smiles and, waving, jogs toward the sedan.
    I watch her go, trying to breathe. I remember how when I realize my hands are locked around my phone. Where I now have the number of a girl who showed up in my dream this morning.
    I don’t know how K.T. is connected to this mess, but she doesn’t seem to be in danger or a threat right now. Guess for once I have some time to figure it out.
    I hope the burning blonde is as easy to find.

Four
    Mariella
    Wednesday, August 27 – 5:47 PM
    During the summer, days pass in a blur. I spend my mornings searching