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.
The social worker walks to the kitchen. It’s like this is a different house. Clean. Smells fresh. She’s on the sofa watching a talk show on the flat-screen, which is now mounted on the wall above the coffee table. I approach her.
She looks me over. Hard.
“You can sit down.”
I sit beside her on the sofa. It’s a new sofa.
“I don’t know you,” she says firmly.
“I live in the neighborhood, but it has been a while.”
She still looks frail but not so sickly. Looks like she put on a bit of good weight, too.
She looks at me direct. “I think I remember you now.”
“That’s good.”
“What are you doing back here?”
That throws me.
“How do you mean?”
“Yes, I remember you. You’re the tax man. The one who got rid of those terrible boys for me.”
Tax man? Oh, yeah. Shit.
“You’re confusing me with someone else, ma’am, maybe an officer.”
“No officer I know would have taken care of those boys like that.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t follow you, but this here is something my neighborhood collected for you. Like a fund-raiser.”
I offer her the bag.
She puts it on her lap and looks in.
The social worker returns from the kitchen.
The old lady folds the bag up again and sets it on the sofa between us. The social worker sits on a chair in the dining room, trying not to be a bother.
“Fund-raiser?” the old lady asks.
I’ve read hundreds of people’s faces in my line of work, and her face is utterly unreadable.
“Yes, ma’am, and we hope it helps.”
“It does indeed.”
“Okay. I’ll be on my way, then. I’m happy to see you home.”
“Happy to still have a home.”
I stand up to leave.
“You can visit again,” she says.
“Okay.”
I smile, shoot the social worker a wave, and walk out.
Eighty-Seven
Eighty-Seven
Later that afternoon I get a call from Hurley. He wants to meet me at the 3D. It’s a short drive there. I park on 17th, where a lot of the cruisers are parked.
Hurley is waiting for me in the front lobby area. He’s alone. Place looks cleaner than it was last time I was here.
“What’s up?” I ask as we shake hands.
“How you healing?”
“Some nerve damage in my hand, but nothing I can’t handle. Stitches are coming out.”
“Good to hear, but sorry about the nerve damage.”
“Like I said, no big deal.”
“Need to see if you can identify some items.”
Oh, yeah. Please let it be…
“In the community room.”
I follow him to a set of double doors. He swings one open.