Hiding Places
Chapters (37)
- Title Page
- Table of Contents
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Chapter Eighteen
- Chapter Nineteen
- Chapter Twenty
- Chapter Twenty-One
- Chapter Twenty-Two
- Chapter Twenty-Three
- Chapter Twenty-Four
- Chapter Twenty-Five
- Chapter Twenty-Six
- Chapter Twenty-Seven
- Chapter Twenty-Eight
- Chapter Twenty-Nine
- Chapter Thirty
- Chapter Thirty-One
- Chapter Thirty-Two
- Books by Skye Warren
- About the Author
- Copyright
Title Page
HIDING PLACES
Skye Warren
Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Books by Skye Warren
About the Author
Copyright
Chapter One
CHAPTER ONE
Jane Mendoza
The smells of roasted coffee and warm sugar waft over me as I step inside.
A little bell rings above the door. Dark wood furniture mixes in haphazardly with lumpy cushion chairs. Original paintings from a local artist hang on the walls with handwritten business cards beside them, with an email address and price. It’s quiet in the mid-afternoon.
A woman sits with her young child, the remnants of a muffin split between them on the table. Each of them has a book. There’s a pang of sadness inside me.
That could have been me and Paige.
A man works on his laptop. There’s a thick backpack in the seat opposite him that looks like it must weigh 100 pounds. He brings forth a different kind of envy.
I want that sense of purpose.
The barista looks up from her phone with a friendly smile. She has the kind of wispy red hair and pale, freckled skin that I’ve always admired. A small, scalloped nose ring looks effortlessly cool. “Good morning. What can I get ya?”
I study the large chalkboard menu hanging above us as if this is a more important choice than a drink. “A caramel macchiato,” I say. “Please.”
“Hot or iced?”
I press my lips together. I’m not used to ordering five-dollar lattes. I’m not used to wearing two-hundred-dollar faux fur boots. I’m not used to having a brand-new wardrobe full of perfectly fitting new clothes in every modern style.
There’s a cute retro headband in my hair. When I saw the price tag, I nearly had a heart attack. Beau Rochester doesn’t ask for permission. These clothes simply appear in my closet. No receipt, no bags, no way to send them back.
The only thing I can do is wear them.
“Iced,” I finally say.
She takes my money and then gestures toward a counter where I can wait. Her hands work efficiently at the silver levers on a complicated machine. Big rumbly sounds erupt along with a frothy drink. Someone else comes in and before they’ve even made it to the counter, the barista grins at them. “The usual?” she asks.
“God, yes,” the woman says, juggling a large tote and a toddler. “How’s Benny?”
“Same old,” the barista says.