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

eyes and looked at my mother. She was now staring straight ahead. “Why didn’t she get out of here and call the police?”
    â€œUh.” Dad’s eyes jerked to Mom, and then he shrugged. “I don’t know.”
    It was more than a little creepy that we were calmly discussing the events leading up to discovering my stepfather’s body while he was oozing blood a few feet away. But I needed more information before I could formulate any kind of sensible plan.
    â€œSo you came over here.” I was perplexed by thewhole scenario. Mom finds her husband murdered. Sticks around. Calls her ex-husband and waits for him to . . . what . . . resurrect Jett? “What next?”
    â€œAfter I made sure there was nothing we could do to help Benedict, I called you.” Dad cut his gaze to my mother. “I wanted to contact the police, but Yvette got hysterical at the idea.”
    Mom’s actions didn’t add up. Had she and Jett had a fight and she smacked him over the head with something? Then, when she’d seen what she’d done, had she decided to try to pin the murder on Dad?
    Oh. My. God! Dad was on parole. He had been paroled rather than pardoned, because despite the fact he hadn’t willingly taken the drug, he had run over and accidentally killed a woman while under its influence. He might have been able to get the conviction overturned, but taking parole had been cheaper and quicker than a new trial.
    My heart raced. He could be sent back to prison. I mentally ran through the conditions of his parole. He hadn’t traveled out of the state without permission or changed his residence. I could prove he was maintaining employment. Unless Mom was a convicted felon, he was avoiding contact with known criminals, because with the exception of Gran, the chief of police, and me, Yvette was the only person with whom he socialized.
    He didn’t do drugs or own a weapon. And he reported regularly to his corrections agent. As far as I knew, there was nothing about discovering a dead body in the rules, but I had a feeling that might fall under some sort of miscellaneous section.
    My stomach clenched. I had to get him out of hereright now, and then I had to make sure no one knew he’d ever been on the scene.
    Grabbing both his hands, I demanded, “What have you touched?”
    For a third time, Dad glanced at my mother. He was definitely hiding something, but we’d already been here way too long, so I couldn’t take the time to pry whatever secret he was keeping out of him.
    When he didn’t answer my question, I raised my voice and repeated, “What did you touch?”
    Dad’s mouth dropped open. Even as a rebellious teen, I had never yelled at him before. Suddenly, his eyes widened, and he shouted, “Son of a bitch! You’re afraid I’ll be accused of murdering him.”
    â€œNot necessarily,” I hedged. Privately, I thought Mom had more to worry about on that front, but now was not the time to bring up that idea. “However, I am concerned that this might affect your parole.”
    My father screwed up his face and then said slowly, “The outside doorknob, the banister, and Benedict’s wrist when I took his pulse.”
    I dug around in my purse until I located a packet of tissues. Ripping one out of the cellophane wrapper, I handed it to my father and ordered, “Wipe everything you touched or might have touched.”
    â€œWhat about him?” Dad pointed at Jett. “Does skin retain fingerprints?”
    â€œI don’t think so.” I tried to remember every forensic television crime show I’d ever watched and every dark mystery I’d ever read. “But if he’s wearing a watch on the wrist where you took his pulse, clean that.”
    â€œHis Rolex is on the other arm,” Dad murmured.
    When my father continued to stand there, I jabbed his shoulder with my index finger and said,