Read Online How I Lost You by Jenny Blackhurst - Free Book Online
Authors: Jenny Blackhurst
Ads: Link
boss. I’ve got a couple of days’ holiday left, thought I’d take some time off.’
‘Why?’ Cassie asks, immediately looking suspicious. I know what she’s thinking: it’s one thing to spend an evening eating Italian food and indulging a strange woman’s paranoid delusions, it’s quite another to use up your hard-earned time off to chase imaginary criminal masterminds.
‘You’re welcome.’ Nick laughs at her rudeness and I feel awful. I shoot Cassie a warning glare. If this gorgeous, intelligent man with his contacts and resources wants to help us, why is she pushing the issue?
‘No, really, why?’ she presses. ‘Come on, Susan, don’t look at me like that. I don’t trust him. Neither of us were supposed to trust him. What’s in it for you, Mr Whitely?’
Nick doesn’t address Cassie’s question right away. He just looks at me closely and says nothing for a full minute. I’m starting to feel uncomfortable under his intense scrutiny when he sits back in his seat.
‘Let’s just say it’s not often that a case piques my interest like this one,’ he replies, not moving his eyes from mine. ‘I spend my days reporting on cases where the facts are clear. I’m a reporter, I’m not an investigative journalist. Press releases, court notes and police statements fall on my desk and I cobble them together into something people want to read. I’m bored.’
He holds out his hands in a take-it-or-leave-it gesture. I’m taking it and I don’t care what Cassie has to say about it.
‘In that case, thank you.’ I get to my feet and Nick does the same. ‘Where do you want to start?’
‘I’ll go home and get some stuff together, then I’ll travel up tomorrow. Sound good?’
‘His wife must be very trusting,’ Cassie says evenly as we drive the ninety-mile trip home. ‘Or maybe he’s gay.’
‘He’s not gay. And he’s not married. No ring.’
‘That doesn’t mean anything.’ Cassie shakes her head. ‘Slimeballs like him never wear their rings. Jim always said his was too tight. Too tight my ass.’
‘Maybe not all men are like Jim,’ I snap, and she says nothing more about Nick.
The journey home takes less time than expected. The roads are quiet and I don’t always stick to the speed limit. Dropping Cassie off at home, I kiss her on both cheeks, thank her for all her help and promise to call her in the morning when I know what time Nick’s arriving.
The car’s too quiet without her constant chatter. On goes the radio and I turn it up as far as my ears will allow to try and drown out the thoughts buzzing through my head. Can I trust Nick Whitely? I know Cassie doesn’t trust him just because he’s so good-looking – if there’s one thing she hates more than men, it’s attractive men – but maybe she has a point.
I know something’s not right as soon as I pull into my driveway, but it takes me a few seconds to figure out exactly what it is that’s wrong. When my brain catches up with my eyes, my heart becomes a lead weight in my chest. My front door is ajar. I wouldn’t have forgotten to close it, no matter how much of a rush I’d been in. Protecting your personal space and your belongings is a lesson that’s drummed into you early on in Oakdale. What’s more disturbing than the door, though, is the shiny red liquid I can see dripping slowly down the handle and on to the step below. My front porch is covered in blood.
12
Every instinct I have is screaming at me not to walk inside my house. So why do I find myself getting out of the car and heading towards the front door?
As I step closer to the blood-soaked porch, my heart hammering a fist-sized hole in my chest, I let out a small sigh of relief. The blood that looked so menacing dripping from the handle and pooling on to the cement slab below is slightly too thick and slightly too red. Paint. Someone’s been in there , I warn myself, and someone might still be in there.
I know I should get back in the car, drive
‘Why?’ Cassie asks, immediately looking suspicious. I know what she’s thinking: it’s one thing to spend an evening eating Italian food and indulging a strange woman’s paranoid delusions, it’s quite another to use up your hard-earned time off to chase imaginary criminal masterminds.
‘You’re welcome.’ Nick laughs at her rudeness and I feel awful. I shoot Cassie a warning glare. If this gorgeous, intelligent man with his contacts and resources wants to help us, why is she pushing the issue?
‘No, really, why?’ she presses. ‘Come on, Susan, don’t look at me like that. I don’t trust him. Neither of us were supposed to trust him. What’s in it for you, Mr Whitely?’
Nick doesn’t address Cassie’s question right away. He just looks at me closely and says nothing for a full minute. I’m starting to feel uncomfortable under his intense scrutiny when he sits back in his seat.
‘Let’s just say it’s not often that a case piques my interest like this one,’ he replies, not moving his eyes from mine. ‘I spend my days reporting on cases where the facts are clear. I’m a reporter, I’m not an investigative journalist. Press releases, court notes and police statements fall on my desk and I cobble them together into something people want to read. I’m bored.’
He holds out his hands in a take-it-or-leave-it gesture. I’m taking it and I don’t care what Cassie has to say about it.
‘In that case, thank you.’ I get to my feet and Nick does the same. ‘Where do you want to start?’
‘I’ll go home and get some stuff together, then I’ll travel up tomorrow. Sound good?’
‘His wife must be very trusting,’ Cassie says evenly as we drive the ninety-mile trip home. ‘Or maybe he’s gay.’
‘He’s not gay. And he’s not married. No ring.’
‘That doesn’t mean anything.’ Cassie shakes her head. ‘Slimeballs like him never wear their rings. Jim always said his was too tight. Too tight my ass.’
‘Maybe not all men are like Jim,’ I snap, and she says nothing more about Nick.
The journey home takes less time than expected. The roads are quiet and I don’t always stick to the speed limit. Dropping Cassie off at home, I kiss her on both cheeks, thank her for all her help and promise to call her in the morning when I know what time Nick’s arriving.
The car’s too quiet without her constant chatter. On goes the radio and I turn it up as far as my ears will allow to try and drown out the thoughts buzzing through my head. Can I trust Nick Whitely? I know Cassie doesn’t trust him just because he’s so good-looking – if there’s one thing she hates more than men, it’s attractive men – but maybe she has a point.
I know something’s not right as soon as I pull into my driveway, but it takes me a few seconds to figure out exactly what it is that’s wrong. When my brain catches up with my eyes, my heart becomes a lead weight in my chest. My front door is ajar. I wouldn’t have forgotten to close it, no matter how much of a rush I’d been in. Protecting your personal space and your belongings is a lesson that’s drummed into you early on in Oakdale. What’s more disturbing than the door, though, is the shiny red liquid I can see dripping slowly down the handle and on to the step below. My front porch is covered in blood.
12
Every instinct I have is screaming at me not to walk inside my house. So why do I find myself getting out of the car and heading towards the front door?
As I step closer to the blood-soaked porch, my heart hammering a fist-sized hole in my chest, I let out a small sigh of relief. The blood that looked so menacing dripping from the handle and pooling on to the cement slab below is slightly too thick and slightly too red. Paint. Someone’s been in there , I warn myself, and someone might still be in there.
I know I should get back in the car, drive
Similar Books
