The Boy Who Killed Grant Parker by Kat Spears Read Free Book Online

impressive collection of tattoos, some of which might have been acquired in prison.
    The Camaro was relocated to the driveway at home so I could work on it during my free hours in the evenings and on weekends. The exterior of the car was filthy, but the body was free of rust and the interior was in almost pristine condition. Doris blanched when the tow truck showed up at the house with the Camaro perched on its bed. “Where are you going to put it?” she asked, distaste evident in her tone.
    â€œI told Dad,” I said, “it will just be in the driveway until I get it running. I’ll clean it, fix it up.”
    The Camaro stood out like a sore thumb against the backdrop of Doris’s carefully pruned azaleas and hydrangeas. I felt like the Camaro and I had that in common. Neither one of us fit in to this life, this town. We were meant for each other.
    Now instead of spending most evenings in my room with a book or watching television, I worked on the Camaro after dinner in the failing daylight. Roger had given me four almost-new tires, saying as he did, “If you end up killing yourself driving on those bald tires, I don’t want the blame to get traced back to me.”
    The evening after Roger gave me the tires I was out in the driveway, working free the lug nuts, which had frozen after years of neglect. I was intent on my task so I did not even notice when Delilah Perry wandered into the yard and came to stand over me.
    I don’t know how long she had been standing there, watching me, when she finally spoke. I was listening to a new remix of an Andhim song on my iPhone and so hadn’t noticed her approach. At the sound of her voice I jerked in surprise and looked up to find her appraising me with her cool gray eyes. She wore a pair of black leggings and an oversize hoodie, the hood up, forcing her hair to obscure most of her face.
    â€œHello, Delilah,” I said absently as I kicked at the tire to loosen it from its mount. “What are you doing here?”
    â€œI was just out for a walk,” she said. “This your car?” she asked with a nod at the Camaro.
    â€œWill be,” I said, “once I get it fixed up.”
    I was mildly surprised when she sat down on the pavement near me and crossed her legs tailor fashion, plucking idly at the frayed drawstring of her hood.
    â€œSo how do you like Ashland, Just Luke?” she asked without any hint of humor as she buried her hands in the front pocket of her sweatshirt.
    â€œWell, Delilah,” I said, “I’ve got to be honest with you. So far, this place sucks pretty hard.”
    â€œPeople call me Del. No one calls me Delilah unless they’re old.”
    â€œWell, I do,” I said. “As long as you keep using that ‘Just Luke’ joke, I’m going to call you Delilah.”
    â€œYeah, well, we’re neighbors,” she said as she pointed to the houses beyond the rear fence of my house. “I live on the street behind you. In fact, I can see into your bedroom window at night.”
    My face immediately flushed with heat at the thought of her watching me in my most private moments, even though I knew without a doubt she couldn’t possibly. My bedroom was on the first floor, at the front of the house, and I always kept my shades carefully drawn. I spent far too much time watching porn on my phone to ever be inclined to let much daylight enter my room. The thought of the porn, and a girl knowing this intimate part of my life, kept the blush there long enough that Delilah got a full minute to enjoy it, the corners of her mouth turning up slightly with a triumphant smirk.
    â€œYou’re very funny,” I said. And she might have been, if her taunts were directed at someone else.
    â€œMy dad says preachers’ kids are nothing but trouble,” she said in almost a sigh, maybe from annoyance with her dad and his opinions, maybe because she thought I was a disappointment to