Whispers by Lisa Jackson Read Free Book Online Page B

best.
    â€œDo.”
    His eyes were serious, but sparkled just a little as he waved her toward one of the high-backed chairs facing him. “You were always the prompt one. Pour yourself a drink and sit down.”
    She wasn’t so easily put at ease. “The prompt one?” Tossing her coat over the back of the couch, she asked, “What’s this all about?” Crossing her arms under her breasts, hoping to appear cool and professional, not a little lost child of twelve who had overheard the horrid arguments between her parents, she wondered why, when she wasn’t intimidated by harsh judges, oily defense attorneys, or hardened criminals, this one man could shake her confidence as no one else ever could. Most of her life Miranda had tried and failed to please her father. Only recently had she quit beating her head against the wall by seeking his approval. Only in the past few years had she finally come to terms with her relationship with him and become her own woman. She didn’t really give a damn if he approved of her or not.
    But still she’d come running. And she was nervous.
    â€œI need to talk to you girls.”
    â€œGirls? Plural?” She lifted an eyebrow. This was news. Worrisome news.
    â€œClaire and Tessa will be here shortly.”
    â€œWhy? What’s going on?” A prick of guilt pierced her brain. What if he were dying? Struggling against disease? But as she stared down at the robust man in the oxblood recliner, she dismissed her concerns. His face was tanned, his blue eyes clear as a June morning as they looked at her above half-glasses that sat on the end of his nose. His hair, thick and always coarse, was no longer brown, but peppered with gray that lightened perceptibly at his temples. Aside from a thickening of his waist, he appeared as healthy as ever. And just as untrustworthy.
    Twin car engines whined. Tires crunched on old gravel. Doors slammed in unison.
    Dutch’s smile was tight. “Your sisters.”
    He was right. In a clatter of footsteps and a murmur of hushed voices, Miranda’s two siblings entered the house and, soon thereafter, the living room. Claire, tall and thin, with reddish-brown hair clipped away from her face, jeans and a cotton sweater, looked anxious, as if she’d lost more weight. Tessa, the youngest and always the most daring, wore a cocky smile. Her tangled blond hair was spiked and way beyond sun-bleached. A long voile dress—dark purple that was sheer enough to show off her legs when she walked in front of the light—billowed around her. Suede boots decorated with beads encased her feet and climbed halfway up her calves. Around her right forearm a band of barbed wire had been permanently tattooed or burned into her skin. A dozen earrings glittered along one ear.
    â€œRanda!” Claire’s smile was filled with relief, Tessa’s suddenly more guarded.
    Hugging her sister close, Claire whispered, “What’s up?”
    â€œBeats me,” Miranda mouthed back.
    Claire, nervous to the point that she hadn’t been able to eat, rubbed the chill from her arms. The last few days had been torture. She wondered about Sean and Samantha—tucked in a tiny motel room in a town even smaller than the one they’d left in Colorado. Worried, she glanced at her watch and hoped to God that whatever Dutch had planned wouldn’t take long.
    â€œHow are the kids?” Randa asked, as Tessa paced the perimeter of the room.
    If I only knew. “As well as can be expected, considering.” Claire had never been much of a liar. “To tell you the truth, it’s been hell. Paul was involved—”
    â€œIt’ll be all right,” Miranda said. Just like Randa. Always in charge. Always cool. Always soothing troubled waters.
    â€œI hope so.” Claire pushed her hair away from her face. “Sean isn’t crazy about moving away from his friends.”
    Tessa snorted.