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Back We Were Killers Once Save as PDF
Chapters (65)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. Dedication
  4. One
  5. Two
  6. Three
  7. Four
  8. Five
  9. Six
  10. Seven
  11. Eight
  12. Nine
  13. Ten
  14. Eleven
  15. Twelve
  16. Thirteen
  17. Fourteen
  18. Fifteen
  19. Sixteen
  20. Seventeen
  21. Eighteen
  22. Nineteen
  23. Twenty
  24. Twenty–one
  25. Twenty–two
  26. Twenty–three
  27. Twenty–four
  28. Twenty–five
  29. Twenty–six
  30. Twenty–seven
  31. Twenty–eight
  32. Twenty–nine
  33. Thirty
  34. Thirty–one
  35. Thirty–two
  36. Thirty–three
  37. Thirty–four
  38. Thirty–five
  39. Thirty–six
  40. Thirty–seven
  41. Thirty–eight
  42. Thirty–nine
  43. Forty
  44. Forty–one
  45. Forty–two
  46. Forty–three
  47. Forty–four
  48. Forty–five
  49. Forty–six
  50. Forty–seven
  51. Forty–eight
  52. Forty–nine
  53. Fifty
  54. Fifty–one
  55. Fifty–two
  56. Fifty–three
  57. Fifty–four
  58. Fifty–five
  59. Fifty–six
  60. Fifty–seven
  61. Author’s Note
  62. Acknowledgments
  63. Also by Becky Masterman
  64. About the Author
  65. Newsletter Sign-up

There was some hesitation from the man who answered the door of the place with the room to let. Beaufort was not invited in immediately. Might have something to do with the neighborhood. Staying alive in prison meant reading other people, and Beaufort figured he had this guy summed up pretty quick. Some affliction that caused him to hold his hand in front of his body and a slight limp. Stroke maybe. Getting disability checks. While Beaufort sized up the man he could tell that the man was sizing up Beaufort, and coming to the same initial conclusion as everyone else, mostly. Just like the guy who drove him to the bus station. Just like the waitress. Smallish, old. What harm could he be? If the man felt the hair go up on the back of his neck he didn’t trust the instinct.

“I take cash, one week at a time,” the man finally said. “Fifty.”

“That’s okay with me,” Beaufort said, and gave him two twenties and a ten from his wallet. “I might only be here a week, is that okay?”

The man looked disappointed but took the money and showed him to the room. Beaufort thought he might have looked less suspicious if he had asked to see the room first, but apparently that didn’t matter. Luckily the transfer of money removed any residual hesitation. The room was clean enough and had a private bathroom attached. He had kitchen privileges, too, as long as he contributed to the beer supply. Neither man had asked the other his name.

When the bedroom door was shut, Beaufort finally sagged onto the bed and doubled over from the ache in his gut. It was easy to hide that ache from others, but not from himself. He almost thought he would start to cry, but long years of disuse made it impossible. He got up, put his new clothes in a drawer in the room but kept the money in his backpack. Then he left the house, got on his bike, and headed off to the Pascagoula City Library to do two things: find out how to research things on the internet, and get himself an email address.

He had fears about dealing with the world that had changed so much during his time in prison. Not fears of people, but of changing times and whether he would look stupid in them. Whether people could tell he was an ex-con and how long he’d been put away. Along with the nightmares of killing, he had had dreams of people laughing at him. And he was also afraid, not of anyone in the drug trade, any driver or waitress or man with a room to rent, but of people both alive and dead for a long time.

But most of all, he was afraid of this thing called forensic science.

Five