Splintered Energy (The Colors Book 1)

Splintered Energy (The Colors Book 1) by Arlene Webb Read Free Book Online

Book: Splintered Energy (The Colors Book 1) by Arlene Webb Read Free Book Online
Authors: Arlene Webb
understood bank records, credit cards, and exactly how much the dead Malcolm had left him. But he didn’t have a handle on safety.
    He needed the sanctuary of Malcolm’s— my home —before the man that lived here returned. He pulled up a map of Cleveland and memorized the path.
    It took two minutes to erase any trace, and two additional minutes to second-guess and recheck. Yes, he’d left the computer as he’d found it.
    The pretty flowers on the table tore a groan from him. He snapped an inch off the base of each stem, opening a fresh path to draw fluid. He added water and put the vase back where it had been.
    Along with vandalism, breaking and entering, it didn’t feel right to take without permission, but he needed the illusion of security. The black, chenille blanket was now his . One loose knot under his chin fastened it around his shoulders, and he closed the door behind him. The daylight had faded into a blue-black sky, quite beautiful, despite the glittering pockets of stars.
    Blanket billowing behind him, he navigated suburbia for twelve miles. He could distinguish human or animal breathing up to ten yards away. Dogs followed him through their territory until stopped by chain or invisible fence. Ground contact time diminished, stride frequency increased and decreased, and the earth seemed to rise to meet his feet.
    Fourteen minutes later, he slowed to a jog and entered the housing development. The blacktop driveway at 55 Edgewood Lane allowed him a grunt of relief, and he filtered the sounds of the night. Nothing human or animal breathed in the quiet shelter. Eighty seconds of systematic number punching and he opened the garage.
    The lock on the interior door broke with a sharp twist, and he found the light switch. He preferred the dark safety of the night, but he had to face what— his —home held.
    Shoulders squared, he grabbed a broom from the corner closet, and proceeded to swat paper towels, dishtowels, and a white toaster into the closet. He tossed and caught an ugly-green ceramic dish three times, as he crossed the room. He placed it on a shelf and sighed, stepped back and centered it correctly, before closing the cabinet.
    Soon, reasonable shades of grey, blue, and beige filled the kitchen. He’d ignore the refrigerator for now, with hope he wouldn’t be here long enough to care. Objects from the living room filled another closet.
    A partial smile curved his lips. The computer had been positioned near a window. He patted the monitor with affection, powered it on, and returned to his systematic rearranging until the living room and master bedroom were at least tolerable. He left the door to the second bedroom closed. The home was basically pleasing to begin with.
    Malcolm James had been okay, for a now dead human.
    He flipped the light in the blue-tiled bathroom connected to the master bedroom. For the first time since he saw the glimpse of the sky earlier that morning, he understood joy as he noted the shower.
    He placed the stolen blanket, folded neatly, on the counter. Eyes closed, he grabbed towels and shoved them in a cupboard. He turned the shower on full blast and made his clothes a tidy stack.
    The scent and sound of splattered droplets gave him courage to face the mirror. His muscular body radiated disciplined strength, without a trace of fat. He carefully pulled away and flickered a sickly yellow-white. He resurged, repeated the process of beautiful to Caucasian and established how simplistic a change of skin hue was.
    Every emotion clamped down, he stayed the wrong color, looked into his eyes and concentrated. Beautiful beams dimmed to the color of the tiled floor. His mouth, open with dismay, exposed the teeth. He resurged.
    He banged his head down on the counter, escaping the reflection— oh my, not the reflection, but his.
    I am so ugly . His sob twisted from his lips. The now familiar emotion of sorrow, akin to fear, led to despair.
    Get it together man, whatever, idiot Mr. James . He

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