Chapters (95)
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Sixty-Two
- Sixty-Three
- Sixty-Four
- Sixty-Five
- Sixty-Six
- Sixty-Seven
- Sixty-Eight
- Sixty-Nine
- Seventy
- Seventy-One
- Seventy-Two
- Seventy-Three
- Seventy-Four
- Seventy-Five
- Seventy-Six
- Seventy-Seven
- Seventy-Eight
- Seventy-Nine
- Eighty
- Eighty-One
- Eighty-Two
- Eighty-Three
- Eighty-Four
- Eighty-Five
- Eighty-Six
- Eighty-Seven
- Acknowledgements
- About the Author
- Also by David Swinson
- Thank you for buying this ebook, published by Hachette Digital.
“What do you want me to do about those boys?” I ask.
“Damn. I got to tell you?”
I exhale a “Hmmph” like an uncomfortable chuckle.
“They your grandsons?”
“Not by my choice.”
“So this here is your home?”
“Bought and paid for by my deceased husband. You the damn tax man?”
I don’t know if she’s serious or if that was meant to be a joke.
“You got a phone in here? Cell phone, maybe?” I ask, scanning her nightstand and not seeing anything.
“No. Ain’t nobody I got to call or even want to. If I did, you got no worries, so get out now.”
“I need to make sure.”
She looks up toward the ceiling, closes her eyes.
“Do what you need to do, then go.”
How she can she stand the smell in here? Maybe it burned her sinuses out a long time ago.
I’m not going to do anything. I can’t. I don’t want to lift those covers to see what’s under there. I just want to get out of this room. It’s too much. I regret even being here.
I exit.
I’m an idiot. I know. If she does have a phone and calls the cops, I hope I’ll see them or hear them coming. And the same goes if she calls her grandsons. Somehow I doubt the latter.
I turn on my Streamlight and head to the rooms at the other end of the hall. The one on the left first.
I enter but don’t turn on the overheads. The light I carry is more than enough. Smells like lilac. Nose-piercing lilac. I don’t know if this is Younger’s or Older’s room. Doesn’t really matter. I’m going to hit both of them.
It’s a small room. One closet. No bathroom. Clothes and shoes clutter the floor. I have to walk on them to get around. It does act as padding to muffle the creaky floor.
I check the nightstand first.
Nice 9mm Sig. No holster. Box of ammo, lighters, little baggie of weed, which I pocket. I leave the gun, ’cause it’ll be more useful if I leave it here.
I check under the bed to find several shoe boxes, more dirty laundry, and a couple of CDs. I look at the titles. Not mine. I check the shoe boxes. Most of them are empty. Two contain brand-new sneakers, still tagged.
I move around to look under the other side of the bed. Nothing worthwhile, so I lift all sides of the mattress and find only a large chef’s knife. I guess that would be the last resort if the gun doesn’t work.
I tear the closet apart, find another baggie of weed, maybe an ounce. Slip that into my pack.