Read Online Martin Misunderstood by Karin Slaughter - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Karin Slaughter
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that way, Sandy and I were actually
friends.'
An stared at him. She sighed a deep raspy sigh
of exhaustion. Martin thought of all the things he
would do if he had her all to himself: stroke her
hair, rub her feet, change her lightbulbs (even if
there were spiders!). He would learn to cook for
her. The art of lovemaking would come easily to
him, the way that macramé and model shipbuilding
had come to him in the ninth grade. And
didn't his mother still have some of his ships on
the top of the kitchen cabinets? Evie wouldn't
still be displaying them after all of these years if
she didn't think they were good!
'Mr Reed?'
She had been talking and he'd missed it. 'Yes?' My love . . .
'Leave.'
He saw that she was holding the door open for
him. A man sat behind a cage with the envelope
containing Martin's personal effects. He turned
around to thank Anther – really to get one more
look at her – only to see the door slam in his face.
The man in the cage started speaking as
Martin approached. 'Count your money, check
your belongings and sign here.'
Martin followed each step, counting down to
the last penny, checking his wallet to make sure
an unclaimed scratch-off ticket was still there.
'Thank you,' he told the man, but apparently the
fish were just as impolite as the screws. Or was it
the screws who controlled the fish? And why did
they call them fish? Perhaps because they were
swimming against the tide instead of schooling
along with the rest of society?
Martin considered this as he walked through
the packed lobby of the jail. There was row after
row of vinyl seats, enough to handle at least five
hundred people, he guessed. Families were
waiting in huddled groups. Grandparents sat
alone. Such sadness.
There was a taxi-stand outside the jail
entrance. Martin got into the first one, which
smelled vaguely of vomit. Or maybe he just
became aware of his own smell in the cramped
quarters. The driver seemed none too pleased. He
rolled down all the windows as he merged on to
the interstate. Martin's hair flapped wildly
around his face, stinging his cheeks, but he did
not care. He stared out the window at the
downtown skyline as the driver jumped on I-20,
then I-285. It wasn't until they passed Atlanta
Airport that Martin realized the driver was
taking the longest route possible.
Well, Martin thought. If the driver assumed he
was getting a tip, he was dead wrong.
They pulled up in front of the Reed house
exactly fifty-two minutes later. Martin was
barely able to pay the price on the meter. The
driver made it clear this was unacceptable. He
backed the cab over a row of Evie's plants as he
zoomed down the driveway. The man probably
thought he was punishing Martin, but the truth
was that Martin was so mad at his mother for not
coming to his aid that he did not care how many
flowers were sacrificed.
'What the hell are you doing home?' Evie
demanded. She stood in the open doorway of the
house, bathrobe hanging open. 'You're supposed
to be in prison.'
'Jail,' he corrected. 'Prison is where you go
when you're convicted.'
'Thank you for the lesson, Mr fucking Smarty-
Pants.'
Martin walked up the front steps and went
into the house. He stopped at the hall mirror,
noting how much he had aged since this morning.
Living life on the wrong side of the tracks would
do that to you.
'Norton Shaw called. He says you're fired.'
'What?'
'He said to get your things after work and
leave your keys in his office. I hope you don't
think you're going to stay here freeloading off
me. I'm an old woman. I have to look out for
myself.'
'Why would they fire me?'
'I dunno, Martin. Lemme go out on a limb
here and say it's because you murdered one of
your God damn co-workers.'
Martin felt his jaw ache from grinding his
teeth. 'I need to borrow your car.'
'Why, is there someone else you want to kill?'
He closed his eyes and slowly counted to ten.
'One . . . two . . . three . . .'
'I always thought you might be autistic,' his
mother muttered as she
friends.'
An stared at him. She sighed a deep raspy sigh
of exhaustion. Martin thought of all the things he
would do if he had her all to himself: stroke her
hair, rub her feet, change her lightbulbs (even if
there were spiders!). He would learn to cook for
her. The art of lovemaking would come easily to
him, the way that macramé and model shipbuilding
had come to him in the ninth grade. And
didn't his mother still have some of his ships on
the top of the kitchen cabinets? Evie wouldn't
still be displaying them after all of these years if
she didn't think they were good!
'Mr Reed?'
She had been talking and he'd missed it. 'Yes?' My love . . .
'Leave.'
He saw that she was holding the door open for
him. A man sat behind a cage with the envelope
containing Martin's personal effects. He turned
around to thank Anther – really to get one more
look at her – only to see the door slam in his face.
The man in the cage started speaking as
Martin approached. 'Count your money, check
your belongings and sign here.'
Martin followed each step, counting down to
the last penny, checking his wallet to make sure
an unclaimed scratch-off ticket was still there.
'Thank you,' he told the man, but apparently the
fish were just as impolite as the screws. Or was it
the screws who controlled the fish? And why did
they call them fish? Perhaps because they were
swimming against the tide instead of schooling
along with the rest of society?
Martin considered this as he walked through
the packed lobby of the jail. There was row after
row of vinyl seats, enough to handle at least five
hundred people, he guessed. Families were
waiting in huddled groups. Grandparents sat
alone. Such sadness.
There was a taxi-stand outside the jail
entrance. Martin got into the first one, which
smelled vaguely of vomit. Or maybe he just
became aware of his own smell in the cramped
quarters. The driver seemed none too pleased. He
rolled down all the windows as he merged on to
the interstate. Martin's hair flapped wildly
around his face, stinging his cheeks, but he did
not care. He stared out the window at the
downtown skyline as the driver jumped on I-20,
then I-285. It wasn't until they passed Atlanta
Airport that Martin realized the driver was
taking the longest route possible.
Well, Martin thought. If the driver assumed he
was getting a tip, he was dead wrong.
They pulled up in front of the Reed house
exactly fifty-two minutes later. Martin was
barely able to pay the price on the meter. The
driver made it clear this was unacceptable. He
backed the cab over a row of Evie's plants as he
zoomed down the driveway. The man probably
thought he was punishing Martin, but the truth
was that Martin was so mad at his mother for not
coming to his aid that he did not care how many
flowers were sacrificed.
'What the hell are you doing home?' Evie
demanded. She stood in the open doorway of the
house, bathrobe hanging open. 'You're supposed
to be in prison.'
'Jail,' he corrected. 'Prison is where you go
when you're convicted.'
'Thank you for the lesson, Mr fucking Smarty-
Pants.'
Martin walked up the front steps and went
into the house. He stopped at the hall mirror,
noting how much he had aged since this morning.
Living life on the wrong side of the tracks would
do that to you.
'Norton Shaw called. He says you're fired.'
'What?'
'He said to get your things after work and
leave your keys in his office. I hope you don't
think you're going to stay here freeloading off
me. I'm an old woman. I have to look out for
myself.'
'Why would they fire me?'
'I dunno, Martin. Lemme go out on a limb
here and say it's because you murdered one of
your God damn co-workers.'
Martin felt his jaw ache from grinding his
teeth. 'I need to borrow your car.'
'Why, is there someone else you want to kill?'
He closed his eyes and slowly counted to ten.
'One . . . two . . . three . . .'
'I always thought you might be autistic,' his
mother muttered as she
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