Read Online A Reason to Kill by Jane A. Adams - Free Book Online

spattering of freckles.
    He waited until the bus moved off and then started to cross the road, his route home taking him past Mrs Freer’s house. He glanced up and then stopped dead.
    Police cars, tape, white-clad figures moving inside the front room. For a wild second or two, George convinced himself that this wasn’t real. Someone was shooting a film, that was it. He’d see it on TV sometime and be able to say, ‘Oh yeah, I saw them filming on my street.’ This wasn’t the old woman’s house; it couldn’t be.
    But it was.
    George felt the pavement shift beneath his feet. The world grew fuzzy round the edges. He swallowed hard to fight the sickness rising in his throat. What was happening here?
    One of the policemen looked his way, his gaze quizzical and accusing. George turned and walked on down the road, crossing only when he was opposite his own house.
    They know
, he thought.
They must know
. The way that policeman had looked at him. Worse still, Dwayne knew and worse even than that, Mark Dowling knew.
    He fumbled in his pocket for his key and stumbled inside, slamming the front door hard. It would be another hour at least before his mum got home and his sister probably wouldn’t be in till after that, if she bothered coming home at all. These days she stayed over at her boyfriend’s place more often than she came back here. For a brief moment George thought about phoning her. He and Karen got on better than most siblings he knew, probably because they’d both been through so much. Probably because of what had happened with their dad. Karen would go mad at him but she’d listen, try to help. George knew better than even to try and talk to his mum. Too ground down by the troubles she’d already encountered in her life, George and Karen were both careful of anything that might rub yet another hole in the thin foil she had become. Not that she’d ever been that reliable, he thought bitterly. She’d been the one to name him George.
    George dropped his bag and sat down on the bottom step, reached through between the spindles to grab the phone from the hall table. He dialled Paul’s number and waited impatiently, staring at the front door, half afraid the policeman who had looked at him would have followed him home.
    â€˜Yeah?’ Paul didn’t have the best telephone technique.
    â€˜You weren’t at school.’
    â€˜Quick that, you noticing.’
    â€˜What’s up with you?’
    â€˜I … er … I fell down the stairs. Mum thought I’d busted my arm, dragged me to casualty.’
    Someone’s there
, George thought.
Listening
.
    â€˜Fell down the stairs?’ he repeated
    â€˜Yeah,’ Paul told him. ‘You know, like you do.’
    â€˜Yeah, I know how you do.’ He closed his eyes. His mother had ‘fallen down the stairs’ more times than George could count. Paul knew that. The difference was, Paul’s dad didn’t beat him up. So who had?
    â€˜Mark Dowling?’ he asked softly, scared that whoever was listening would catch the name and ask what it meant.
    â€˜Y’know.’ George could hear the shrug in his friend’s voice. ‘These things happen. At least it’s not bust.’ He paused. George heard a woman’s voice in the background. ‘Mum says you can come round. Stop for tea. You coming?’
    George breathed relief, realizing how much he didn’t want to be alone.
    â€˜Thanks,’ he said. ‘Be right there.’
    He reached back through the stair rails and dropped the phone back on the cradle. He peered cautiously out through the front-room window before opening the door and then ran full pelt to where, three doors down, Paul was waiting for him.

Nine
    T ea at Paul’s house had been a stilted affair. George wolfed the sausage, egg and chips with extra bread and butter that Paul’s mother served up for them and drank down two mugs of the