Read Online Chance Assassin: A Story of Love, Luck, and Murder by Nicole Castle - Free Book Online Page A

some retail therapy .  That’s shopping, yeah?”
    “Yeah, it’s shopping,” I said, my already broken heart shattering into a million pieces.  His friend was female.  Of course she was.  She was probably beautiful, too.  But his statement had answered another question.  The way he’d said Paris was unmistakably French.  That was the accent.  “Where are you from, Frank?”
    “Here,” he said, a moment too late.
    “You don’t get asked that very much, do you?”
    He gave me a semi-threatening glare.  “Eat your lunch.”
    “You first.”
    Frank rolled his eyes and took a fry.
    “Hmm.  French fry,” I muttered.
    He shook his head in exasperation.  “You’re going to be a big problem for me.”
    “I’m glad your friend is doing better,” I said.  “Where’d you grow up?”
    “Enough questions,” he said sternly. “Eat.”
    We sat in silence for what had to be a record for me, ten whole minutes while I wolfed down the best meal I’d had since before my parents died.  Then, when I’d had enough food and quiet, I started up the inquisition again.  He must’ve had a long enough reprieve because he didn’t stop me.
    “Where’d you grow up?”
    “Where’d you grow up?” he asked in response, pushing the last of the fries toward me.  He was as picky as a child, but I’d prodded him enough to get him to try a bite of my burger.
    “Near here.  A little Podunk town you’ve never heard of.  Your turn.”
    “Why’d you come to Chicago?”
    I crossed my arms over my chest.  “ Your turn.”
    He rolled his eyes.  “London.”
    “As in England?” I asked.  Geography hadn’t been my best subject, but I was pretty sure you didn’t get a French accent from London.
    “Why’d you come to Chicago?” he asked again.  He’d been subtle before when he skirted my questions, but now he was just being a brat.
    “You don’t have a British accent.”
    “Nor would I,” he said. “I have an English accent, when I feel like it.”
    “When you feel like it,” I teased. “I want to hear it.”
    “Tough,” he said firmly. “Why’d you come to Chicago?”
    “That’s where the trucker was heading,” I said.  It had been my first go at hitchhiking, and despite my usual bad luck, I’d actually found someone nice.  He hadn’t even taken advantage of me, and he bought me pie.  But he did tell me I needed to get to know My Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, and that had made me a bit uncomfortable.
    I’d never been a very good Catholic.  I wasn’t fond of guilt, and our church didn’t employ any of those handsy priests I’d heard such delightful things about, so I saw no reason to attend.  Still, I’d told the man I’d do my best to look up JC once I got settled, just to ease his mind.
    “Where are your parents?” Frank asked.
    “It’s my turn to ask the questions,” I said sternly.
    “I have to go to work.”
    “Cheater,” I said.  I knew he was only fleeing to avoid any more talking.  The man was impossible.  “My parents are dead.”
    “Were they good to you?”
    I stared at him.  No one ever asked that.  They’d always jump right to the apologies, as if their being sorry changed anything.  “What if they weren’t?”
    “Then you’re better off without them,” he said plainly, cold and detached.  But it was too late.  I was already getting choked up.
    “Yes, they were good to me,” I said with my head down.
    “How did they die?”
    I wiped my eyes.  It had been awhile since I’d talked to anyone about it.  The social workers dried up pretty quickly once I’d gotten placed in the first of many foster homes, and Mark had never liked discussing the negative sides of life.  “Car accident,” I said. “They were killed instantly.”
    “Were you in the car?” Frank asked.  He didn’t flinch at the word killed . Not like someone else would.
    “In the backseat,” I said.  I didn’t remember any of it.  The entire day was a blur.  But I’d