The Truth of All Things by Kieran Shields Read Free Book Online Page B

moment. Inside was the unmistakable sound of Owen’s feet thudding across the apartment’s wooden floors, and he heard his wife call out for the boy to stop running. Lean turned the knob and lurched into the entryway. The smell of frying rashers washed over him, and he also detected the scent of coffee hovering in the air. His stomach growled in anticipation. He deposited his coat and hat on the rack and took several steps into the main room.
    He needed sleep, but first he’d sit down for a minute with a book. Something to set his mind straight again. He paused at the bookcase, perusing the titles. He considered the Whitman he’d purchased just after the poet’s death three months earlier. But at this moment hewasn’t up for the challenge. He needed something with recognizable patterns, something that adhered to the rules of classic poetic measures. He opted for a more sympathetic volume of Longfellow. Book in hand, Lean slumped into his favorite chair. He bent forward to untie his shoelaces, but before he could reach that far, he was met by the full-bore charge of his five-year-old boy.
    “Daddy’s home!”
    “Hello, boy.”
    Owen catapulted into his father’s midsection, knocking him back into the chair. Within seconds the boy had scrambled down to the floor and was off again, pounding away across the room.
    Lean could feel his eyelids sagging. He fought against it and was rewarded with the sight of Emma walking toward him, still in her morning robe, her long, dark curls not yet put up for the day. She was smiling, but even in Lean’s exhausted state he could recognize the thinly veiled mixture of relief and frustration in her deep brown eyes.
    “Daddy’s home,” she repeated at a mere fraction of the volume of her son’s prior announcement.
    Lean smiled, and his hand moved to her belly, where his widespread fingers pressed gently against her dress, feeling the taut, bulging skin beneath the fabric.
    “How’s the wee one this morning?”
    “Good,” Emma said. “Quiet, though. She was wondering where her father was.”
    “She?”
    “Just a thought.”
    “It’s a good thought.”
    Lean heard a scraping on the floor as his wife used her foot to slide a stool in front of him. With a herculean effort, Lean raised his feet enough to slip them onto the stool. He peeked out from under a drooping eyelid and contemplated his scuffed shoes.
    “Have we any polish?”
    “They are a bit rough, aren’t they? I’m sorry. I’ll get to them before tomorrow.”
    “Oh, don’t worry over it.”
    “Asks for polish, the first time in his life he’s ever mentioned shoe polish, then he says not to mind it. You’re a right piece of mischief, Archie Lean. And you’ve been smoking again. I smell that stink on you.”
    At the mention of the offending odor, Lean’s hand drifted up to his shirt pocket. He felt the little nub of the killer’s cigarette butt. “You’d forgive me if you only knew.” His voice was faltering, giving in to sleep.
    “I forgive you anyway.” Emma ran her fingertips across his forehead, brushing his thick, straw-colored hair to one side. “I’ll get you some eggs, and there’s rashers still warm.”
    As Emma went into the kitchen, Lean withdrew the killer’s cigarette and held it to his face once more. He wrinkled his nose. It was a strange herbal mixture that he didn’t recognize. Was that it—was that the look he’d seen flashing across Grey’s face when he sniffed the tobacco? The surprise of recognition?
    “What the devil’s he hiding?” Lean let the cigarette drop back into his pocket. He reached over to the side table and laid a hand on his volume of Longfellow, but he couldn’t muster the energy to pick it up.
    “I thought you’d be back sooner,” Emma said from the kitchen.
    “I will be,” he said.
    “Be what?” Emma wandered over to the doorway.
    “Back soon. Promise.”
    “Fair enough, love.” She chuckled, then called for Owen in a low voice.
    As he drifted