Read Online Between a Book and a Hard Place by Denise Swanson - Free Book Online Page A

death, I let out a scream.
    Strike three. Whoever was down there now knew that I was heading their way.
    Scrambling upward, I decided that, despite my father’s warning, I needed backup. But before I could figure out whom to call, I heard my dad shouting my name.
    I leaned forward and squinted. I could see a figure moving toward me.
    A few seconds later, Dad grabbed me by the elbow and said, “Hurry. Benedict’s in the archives.”
    Having no idea where the library kept its archives, I allowed Dad to escort me down into the basement, but I kept both the pepper-spray gun and cell phone light clutched in my hands, ready for any trouble.
    As we passed through a large area piled with old furniture, cartons, and trunks covered in spiderwebs, I asked, “Whose phone did you use to call me?” I would have recognized the number if it were his.
    â€œYour mother’s.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œShe said hers was a prepaid disposable and couldn’t be traced.”
    My breath caught in my throat. Why did my mother carry a burner cell? And more important, why didn’t she want my dad’s call to me to be traceable? This situation had disaster written all over it.
    Before I could put my questions into words, Dadled me into a room lined with shelves and file cabinets. Evidently, Jett had arranged for the electricity to be turned on, because a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling illuminated the scene.
    The light was dim, but it was bright enough for me to see my stepfather’s body collapsed over an open drawer, the back of his head a bashed-in, bloody mess. My hope that he really wasn’t dead evaporated faster than a genie returning to his bottle after granting the third wish.
    When the yogurt I’d recently eaten threatened a reappearance, I swallow hard and averted my glance from Jett’s wound. Looking away from the carnage, I spotted Yvette slumped in an old wooden chair, her face buried in her hands. Mom’s shoulders were shaking, but she wasn’t making any sound.
    Taking a deep breath, I turned to Dad and asked, “What happened?”
    â€œBenedict kept texting your mother while she and I were talking at the dime store,” Dad explained. “At first she didn’t read his messages, but when she did, she said he wanted her to meet him at the library. We were in the middle of an important discussion, so she ignored his request, but he kept bugging her.”
    I raised a brow. My father knew darn well he and his ex-wife had been flirting, not ironing out a treaty for world peace.
    Dad had the grace to look a little sheepish as he continued. “Finally, your mom said she’d better see what Benedict wanted and left to go to the library to find out what the fuss was about.”
    â€œI take it you didn’t go with her.” I was fairlycertain Mom’s new husband didn’t know she had been spending so much time with her old one.
    â€œNot all the way to the library.” Dad refused to meet my eyes, finding the band of his wristwatch too fascinating to look away from. “I waited for her in my car. The plan was that she’d run over here, take care of whatever Benedict needed, and then we’d head to the barbecue place over by Sparkville for a late lunch.”
    â€œWhat happened next?” I asked, although I had a pretty good idea.
    â€œYvette walked across the square and used her key for the side entrance.” Dad glanced over at my mother, who still hadn’t lifted her head or moved from her perch on the wooden chair. “She knew Benedict was in the archives, so she went down here to find him.”
    â€œAnd?” I swear getting Dad to tell me the whole story was as hard as getting the last bit of caramel sauce from a glass jar.
    â€œAnd your mother discovered Benedict like this.” Dad pointed to the body of my stepfather. “It was obvious he was dead, so she called me.”
    â€œWhy?” I narrowed my