Read Online Dying by the Hour (A Jesse Sullivan Novel Book 2) by Kory M. Shrum - Free Book Online Page A

mother discovered her NRD, she turned her out. You would be surprised how many of the homeless children are homeless simply because they were thrown out.”
    “40%,” Nikki says. “It’s the same for LBGT youth.”
    I turn to leave but Jeremiah grabs ahold of me.
    “No one is looking out for them,” Jeremiah says, releasing me gently. “But I am.” He raps his fist against his chest. “I am but I need you with me, Alice. And we need Jesse.”
    “She’s been through enough,” I say. “I can’t ask anything more of her.”
    Jeremiah’s face softens for the first time. He nods and turns back toward the glass. I’m almost at the end of the hallway, at the edge of his sight when he stops me one last time.
    “Unfortunately,” he says and his expression is soft and sad. “Jesse may not have a choice.”

Jesse
     
    I ’m really dragging ass on the way home. I can’t quit thinking about Caldwell, especially when he was still Eric. Back when he was just some mechanic, married to my mom, Danica, with a chatterbox kid following him everywhere. Back when he was my dad.
    No— He isn’t Eric Sullivan anymore.
    Your dad is dead.
    But—his smile, his face as he opened his arms and bent low to scoop me up. The smell of him: cedar, oil and aftershave.
    He ordered his men to kill you. He considers that life as over as you do. You are not his kid anymore.
    And it’s definitely true that my old life seems a million miles away. So why can’t I stop thinking about him?
    When I open the back door to my house Winston comes running. It’s something that never happens unless it is dinner time. I think that much fat just makes it hard to run. And he is solid enough to knock me back a step as he throws himself against my legs and whines. His tail is tucked and ears up and alert.
    “It’s okay, baby,” I say. I coo in the pug’s ears and rub the soft velvet between my fingers. “What’s wrong?”
    He whines more desperately, staring toward the front of the house. He wants me to pick him up, but he’s too fat for that. And I need my hands anyway because something is obviously wrong.
    The hair on the back of my neck is at attention. I see knives in the block on the counter and think about grabbing one, but that feels dumb. I’d probably just stab myself like some stupid horror movie girl.
    I creep, pug close at my heels still whining to be lifted like a baby. I want to soothe him, but I am trying to pay attention. One room at a time, I strain to hear anything despite the racket my panicked heart makes.
    The kitchen is empty. The space between my counters and island are clear. Nothing is hiding under the dining table nor is anything lurking in the high archway leading into the living room. The office is clear and so is the living room, unless they are crouching down between the couch and coffee table, on the other side out of sight—which is a possibility I acknowledge.
    I take a few tentative steps to the left so I can check the front door before moving toward the stairs that will take me upstairs.
    Then I see it.
    A spray of glass in the foyer glitters and in the mess, a small wrapped bundle lay in wait. I order Winston to stay. He doesn’t listen, taking a step forward as I do, his nails clicking on the wood.
    “ Stay .” I say. My fear and anger fills my voice. Feeling guilty that my voice makes him shiver more, I try to explain. “The glass, baby. You’ll get it in your paws.”
    I take another step closer as I cast a nervous glance into the living room. No one is crouched beside the couch. I strain again to hear anything over the silence: a floorboard shifting under someone’s weight. A stair creaking. Breath or a rustling of clothes. Movement of any kind.
    But I hear nothing except the cool air wafting through the shattered pane.
    Rib cage sore from the still constant flapping of my heart, I carefully take the cloth wrapped bundle in my hands.
    It is an odd shape, and heavy. I unroll the wound cloth and take a