The Collector by Victoria Scott Read Free Book Online Page A

second.
    Grams steps toward me, and I try to take what I hope is a subtle step backward. Get away. Get your sickness away from me!
    She notices me backing up and stops. Hurt fills her blue-gray eyes. Before I can think of something to say, I turn and walk out the door.
    I need to get away from this house. Away from Charlie and her big, trusting eyes. Away from Grams and the look she just gave me. What am I supposed to feel? Guilt? Shame?
    No.
    I won’t.
    I am The Collector.
    I walk to the closest pay phone and call the only cab in Peachville. When the driver picks me up fifteen minutes later, he asks, “Where to?”
    “A car dealership,” I say. “The best you got.”

Chapter Seven
    Pulling Weeds
    At 7:45 a.m. , I leave Wink Hotel and head for Charlie’s house. After a night of sleep and frivolous spending, I feel like myself again. Like Dante freakin’ Walker, the best damn collector on planet Earth.
    I’m going to collect Charlie’s soul. I’m not going to feel bad doing it. It’s my job. It’s nothing personal.
    This morning, I’m relishing the perks of working for the Underworld. I press my foot down on the accelerator, and the deep rumble of my candy apple–red Escalade growls. My new baby girl has black leather, Bose surround sound, and twenty-two-inch rims. Match.com couldn’t have created a happier couple.
    Outside Charlie’s house, I honk once and wait. I want to see her face when she walks out the door. She’s going to like this ride as much as I do. Only lovers of red can truly appreciate this beauty.
    As I’m watching her door, I feel something outside my window. I glance to my left, but there’s nothing there. At least that’s what my eyes say. But I can feel the collector watching me through his shadow. Watching and waiting for me to botch this assignment.
    A tapping sound to my right sends a chill up my spine. Charlie is smiling through the passenger window. Her backpack is slung over both shoulders, and she’s dressed in dark jeans and a tie-dyed T-shirt. Tie-dye? Really?
    She opens the door, and her wide gaze darts around, taking it all in. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
    “I’m telling you, I’m not.”
    “It’s so awesome!” she says through the hand over her mouth. “Where’d you get it?”
    “It’s mine. Mom said she’d buy it for me if I moved to Alabama peacefully.” I wave my hand around the interior. “I chose peace.”
    “I’d choose peace, too.” Charlie climbs into the passenger seat, then tosses her bag into the back. “Let’s name it.”
    “Name my car? No.”
    “Yes! Ooh, let me do it. How about Elizabeth Taylor? She was flashy and looked good in red.”
    “You want to name my car Elizabeth Taylor?”
    “Not want to. Did. It’s done.”
    I pull in a long breath. “Can you just tell me where Liz needs to go?”
    Charlie claps her hands together and tells me where we’re headed. I punch the address into the nav system, and twenty-five minutes later, we’re parked in front of Peachville’s ghetto. I was sure a city with the name Peachville couldn’t have a rough part of town, but I stand corrected.
    Decrepit houses line the streets, barely a foot between them. Chain-link fences enclose weed-infested yards, and iron bars protect the windows. I watch Charlie from the corner of my eye. “You got a death wish?”
    “Trust me, okay?” she chirps, even though it’s way too early for chirping. Charlie slides out of the car and waves at a yellow school bus parked near a crumbling curb. People start pouring out of the bus and heading toward her. They’re carrying paint buckets, flower pots, sod, and lots of tools murderers use.
    “Charlie, can you please clue me in?” I ask, getting out and stretching my legs.
    She opens the back door, grabs her backpack, and pulls out two long-sleeved T-shirts. I grab one as it flies toward me and read the bright, obnoxious logo: Hands Helping Hands .
    “What does this mean?” I ask. Then it clicks. “Oh, no.