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Refraction

Naomi Hughes
Chapters (31)
  1. Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright Notice
  4. Dedication
  5. CHAPTER ONE
  6. CHAPTER TWO
  7. CHAPTER THREE
  8. CHAPTER FOUR
  9. CHAPTER FIVE
  10. CHAPTER SIX
  11. CHAPTER SEVEN
  12. CHAPTER EIGHT
  13. CHAPTER NINE
  14. CHAPTER TEN
  15. CHAPTER ELEVEN
  16. CHAPTER TWELVE
  17. CHAPTER THIRTEEN
  18. CHAPTER FOURTEEN
  19. CHAPTER FIFTEEN
  20. CHAPTER SIXTEEN
  21. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
  22. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
  23. CHAPTER NINETEEN
  24. CHAPTER TWENTY
  25. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
  26. EPILOGUE
  27. AUTHOR’S NOTE
  28. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  29. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  30. Newsletter Sign-up
  31. Copyright

Cover

cover

Title Page

REFRACTION

NAOMI HUGHES

Copyright Notice

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Dedication

For the One who believed in me
when all I could see were the shadows

CHAPTER ONE

THE COPS START TAILING ME ON BANYAN LANE. I should be worried about the contraband sewn into the bill of my baseball cap, but all I can think about is whether or not I remembered to lock my loft before I left this morning.

“Marty Callahan,” calls one of the officers in an easy voice, like I’m an old friend he’s spotted at a party. But his eyes are trained on me like I’m a dangerous animal, and whatever Cisco Island is nowadays, it’s definitely no party.

I give the cops a faux-surprised grin and a middle-finger wave—carefully measuring the amount of disrespect in the gesture, enough to seem normal for me but not enough to piss them off more than necessary—then speed up a little.

I did lock the loft, I’m sure of it. I can almost hear the way that final, biggest dead bolt clunked heavily when I slid it into place, can almost feel how the rusted padlock flaked in my hand when I pulled the key out. But the need to go back and check just in case tugs at me anyway, even though I should be way more worried about the two jokers behind me.

“We’re talking to you, Callahan,” says another voice. It’s the other officer, the younger one. He sounds a lot less casual than his partner. Which probably means he intends to stop me, pat me down, do a “random” search for the dangerous illegal goods they suspect—but haven’t yet managed to prove—I sell. Any other day, that would be no problem for me. I haven’t moved any goods in weeks. But today, the desperation got a little too strong, and I managed to convince myself the heat had died down enough for me to venture back out. A decision I’m cursing myself for now.

There’s a small crowd ahead of me, weaving in and out of the early-afternoon shadows cast by the gnarled trees that line this street. The islanders must be headed to the ration dispensary for weekly distribution. Maybe I can merge with them, buy myself some time while I figure out an escape route. I step off the sidewalk and onto the cracked asphalt of the road.