Read Online Don't Ever Tell by Brandon Massey - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Brandon Massey
Ads: Link
tended to stay indoors in such weather, their brittle bones unable to withstand the low temperatures.
He pulled his knit cap low over his head.
He already had the Glock and the switchblade stashed inside his jacket.
He climbed out of the Chevy and crunched through the slush. A white delivery van rumbled down the road, and he waited for it to pass before he crossed the street.
He trudged toward the house. Thick, hard snow carpeted the walkway. She probably paid a neighborhood kid to shovel the walk, and hadn’t gotten around to having it done yet for the most recent snowfall.
A short set of concrete steps, caked with ice, led to the front door. A half-full bag of salt stood nearby, next to an aluminum snow shovel.
He reached inside the bag and got a handful of salt. He tossed the granules across the steps.
Then he picked up the shovel. Returning to the end of the walkway, he began to scrape snow and ice off the pavement, tossing it aside into the yard.
When he had gotten deep into his work and had cleared off half the path, the front door finally creaked open.
Back turned to the house, he continued to shovel, as if he were only a good neighbor concerned about the snow piling up on an elderly lady’s property. Slowly he worked his way backward along the path, drawing closer to the doorway.
“Excuse me,” she said. Her cultured voice retained some of the authority of the elementary school teacher she’d been before her retirement. “Excuse me, sir?”
He kept his back to her, kept shoveling, kept inching backward.
He heard the door creak open wider.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said. “I appreciate your shoveling off my walkway, but do I know you?”
Only a couple of feet from the porch, he spun around.
Betty stood in the doorway, bifocals perched on the edge of her nose. She wore a white sweatshirt and matching pants and held a tea cup.
When she saw his face, the cup slipped out of her fingers and shattered on the porch steps.
“I’m a little offended, Betty,” he said. “How could you ever forget me?”
“Dexter . . . oh, Jesus...”
“Long time no see, bitch,” he said, and slammed the shovel against her head.
14
The office of Rachel’s OB-GYN was located in College Park, just off Old National Highway. Joshua’s parents lived less than ten minutes away, so he decided to visit them before he met Rachel for her appointment.
Old National Highway, the city’s main drag, was a winding, four-lane road of strip malls, fast-food joints, nightclubs, pawn shops, currency exchanges, barber shops, hair salons, and liquor stores. The dome of a mega-church rose in the distance, resembling a pro sports arena.
Farther along the highway, retail gave way to residential development. Builders had recently discovered the area and were busy erecting the same sprawl of cookie-cutter subdivisions that consumed much of metro Atlanta.
His parents lived in an older section of town, in a neighborhood of Craftsman bungalows, ranches, and old Colonials. Oaks, elms, and maples stretched bare branches into the cloudy afternoon sky.
He parked in the driveway of their ranch house. Although it was midday, his parents were retired, and usually home.
The garage door was open, so he went in via that way. His father had his head stuck under the hood of a yellow Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight that looked as if it hadn’t burned gas in a decade.
“Hey, Dad,” Joshua said.
His father slid from under the hood like a man extricating himself from the maw of a whale. With skin the color of aged oak, he was a small, compact man, standing about fivesix; Joshua had inherited his size from his mother’s branch of the family.
A dirty cotton towel peeked from a pocket of his dad’s jumpsuit, and he grabbed it and wiped off his hands. He had worked as a mechanic at the local Ford plant before it closed, and though he had retired, he wore the oil-stained gray jumpsuit almost every day. It was a family joke that he would one day be buried in the
He pulled his knit cap low over his head.
He already had the Glock and the switchblade stashed inside his jacket.
He climbed out of the Chevy and crunched through the slush. A white delivery van rumbled down the road, and he waited for it to pass before he crossed the street.
He trudged toward the house. Thick, hard snow carpeted the walkway. She probably paid a neighborhood kid to shovel the walk, and hadn’t gotten around to having it done yet for the most recent snowfall.
A short set of concrete steps, caked with ice, led to the front door. A half-full bag of salt stood nearby, next to an aluminum snow shovel.
He reached inside the bag and got a handful of salt. He tossed the granules across the steps.
Then he picked up the shovel. Returning to the end of the walkway, he began to scrape snow and ice off the pavement, tossing it aside into the yard.
When he had gotten deep into his work and had cleared off half the path, the front door finally creaked open.
Back turned to the house, he continued to shovel, as if he were only a good neighbor concerned about the snow piling up on an elderly lady’s property. Slowly he worked his way backward along the path, drawing closer to the doorway.
“Excuse me,” she said. Her cultured voice retained some of the authority of the elementary school teacher she’d been before her retirement. “Excuse me, sir?”
He kept his back to her, kept shoveling, kept inching backward.
He heard the door creak open wider.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said. “I appreciate your shoveling off my walkway, but do I know you?”
Only a couple of feet from the porch, he spun around.
Betty stood in the doorway, bifocals perched on the edge of her nose. She wore a white sweatshirt and matching pants and held a tea cup.
When she saw his face, the cup slipped out of her fingers and shattered on the porch steps.
“I’m a little offended, Betty,” he said. “How could you ever forget me?”
“Dexter . . . oh, Jesus...”
“Long time no see, bitch,” he said, and slammed the shovel against her head.
14
The office of Rachel’s OB-GYN was located in College Park, just off Old National Highway. Joshua’s parents lived less than ten minutes away, so he decided to visit them before he met Rachel for her appointment.
Old National Highway, the city’s main drag, was a winding, four-lane road of strip malls, fast-food joints, nightclubs, pawn shops, currency exchanges, barber shops, hair salons, and liquor stores. The dome of a mega-church rose in the distance, resembling a pro sports arena.
Farther along the highway, retail gave way to residential development. Builders had recently discovered the area and were busy erecting the same sprawl of cookie-cutter subdivisions that consumed much of metro Atlanta.
His parents lived in an older section of town, in a neighborhood of Craftsman bungalows, ranches, and old Colonials. Oaks, elms, and maples stretched bare branches into the cloudy afternoon sky.
He parked in the driveway of their ranch house. Although it was midday, his parents were retired, and usually home.
The garage door was open, so he went in via that way. His father had his head stuck under the hood of a yellow Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight that looked as if it hadn’t burned gas in a decade.
“Hey, Dad,” Joshua said.
His father slid from under the hood like a man extricating himself from the maw of a whale. With skin the color of aged oak, he was a small, compact man, standing about fivesix; Joshua had inherited his size from his mother’s branch of the family.
A dirty cotton towel peeked from a pocket of his dad’s jumpsuit, and he grabbed it and wiped off his hands. He had worked as a mechanic at the local Ford plant before it closed, and though he had retired, he wore the oil-stained gray jumpsuit almost every day. It was a family joke that he would one day be buried in the
Similar Books
