Won't Let Go by Avery Olive Read Free Book Online Page B

again, “I was thinking that maybe, just maybe, you know this house. That a part of you remembers it.” He nods, so I continue, “Either this is where you died, or, and I’m hoping this more than anything, you remember this house because it’s where you grew up.”
    “Makes sense.”
    Gah! I want to yell at him and his stupid monotone one-liners and head nods. I ignore his sign of blah-ness and say, “So tomorrow I am going to go to the library, maybe see if I can dig something up.”
    He’s dead, this isn’t a huge town, I’m sure I can solve this case lickity split by looking through the obituaries. How many teenage kids could have possibly kicked the bucket in town? Then my mind wanders back to the stuffed cemetery we drove past to get here, how it seemed to bulge at the seams of the fenced perimeter. I shake it off. I still think I can have this case broken wide open in no time.
    And dammit, he nods again . “Sounds good.”
    I let out a humph, which is muffled by a yawn.
    “You’re tired,” he says matter of factly, getting up from the chair. The small wheels on the bottom squeal as it rolls towards the desk. He’s already at the closet door before I realize he’s actually leaving. “From now on I’ll knock,” he says. And as if my expression—though I don’t think it does—shows him I don’t understand, his knuckles tap the door as his other hand pulls it open.
    He doesn’t say good-bye and neither do I, but I watch him disappear through the door and it annoys me. He does it so human-ish. As if instead of vanishing on the other side he’s just leaving through the door, or window, like some normal guy would.
    Once he’s gone, I slide down the pillows and curl up, wrapping my arms around the duvet, curious if Oakley’s head nods and one-liners are a sign of how he acted when he was alive. If he was as quiet and reserved as he seems now, or if death changed him—made him...a little boring. Either way, he still needs my help and I’m determined to give it.
     

Chapter Seven
    I wake up from another unusually fitful night. When my eyes flutter open, bringing in the morning, my duvet is tangled between my legs. I’m wrapped up so tightly in the covers, I could be a mummy, or a burrito, as Mom used to say when she tucked me in super tight. Untangling myself from the confines of my duvet, I slide off the bed.
    In the bathroom, I splash cool water on my face, waking myself up even further. Then taking my brush I work out the matt that has developed at the back of my head, another thing that tells me I tossed and turned a lot. But why? I can’t really pinpoint what I was thinking, what crept into my dreams, making me uncomfortable enough to try and strangle myself with a down filled duvet.
    While working through the knots, I realize something. I stink. And not in a putrid, bag lady from the streets way, but in a worked out hard during gym class way. After stripping off my clothes, I turn on the taps of the porcelain tub. It’s old, or one of those new ones that’s meant to look old. You know, bringing out the old charm. The back is high. The tub itself is deep. And holding it up, off the ground, are four golden clawed feet. I’m surprised I didn’t notice it before. Then again, I suppose I’ve had other, more exciting things on my mind.
    Oakley.
    The water is hot, steaming up the bathroom. I tilt my head back and let the spray from the shower rain droplets all over my body. It’s nice. It’s quiet, and with each passing second I feel cleansed, both on the inside and outside. The water washes away everything, taking away my troubles, pooling them in the tub before they swirl down the drain. But like the swing did yesterday, it’s only temporary. Once I turn off the water, dry my skin and leave the bathroom, everything will come rushing back.
    I think I’ll only truly be relaxed when Oakley’s mystery is solved.
    After Oakley left last night, I thought about him, and not just about his