Read Online Murder at Castle Rock by Anne Marie Stoddard - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anne Marie Stoddard
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boss's body in the moonlight as he plummeted toward the loading dock. I would never look at that tower the same way again.
The night seemed eerily calm, with no sound aside from the whispering of the breeze through the trees just inside the fence—not even the occasional car horn or siren. It was rare to experience such quiet in the heart of a city like Atlanta, and it unnerved me. I shivered in the chilly November wind and pulled my coat more tightly around me, quickening my pace. I could just make out the dim lights of the employee parking lot beyond the fence. Rounding the corner, I spotted my grey Jetta, the lone car left in the lot. I found myself regretting the decision to walk out here alone at three in the morning. Don't worry, I reassured myself. Almost there.
I was about to sprint the last few yards when a bright light shone in my face, blinding me. Squinting, I saw the outline of a figure in front of me. I screamed bloody murder and tried to run past, but I couldn't see where I was going. A cracked section of pavement tripped me up, and I went sprawling across the sidewalk. Ouch !
My unknown assailant rushed to my side, and the light followed. Between the sounds of my own cries, I could make out the words "reporter," "eyewitness," and "death." As my eyes adjusted, I could see the blinking red recording light of a video camera, held by a tall cameraman in faded jeans and a green hoodie. The reporter spouting questions at me was a middle-aged man with greying hair and a dark blue suit. I recognized him from one of the local news shows. 'Mark' something.
"Can you tell us about the death here tonight? Our sources say the body belonged to the owner of this establishment, that he jumped from the tower. Is this true? Was it a suicide? " The reporter loomed close to my face and rattled off questions in a rapid-fire manner, not allowing me room to so much as catch my breath, let alone answer.
"Get away from me!" I shrieked, struggling to pull myself off the ground. For the record, neither the reporter nor the cameraman made any attempt to help me up. Rude!
"Leave her alone!" someone called. Rapid footfalls grew louder behind me. I whipped my head around to see Tony Spencer, the hot radio guy, jogging yet again to my rescue. Tim Scott was on his heels.
"Where do you get off, man?" Tony snapped at the reporter. He held up one arm to shield us both from the camera and shoved the cameraman with the other, nearly causing the man's equipment to topple off of his shoulder. The man managed to maintain his balance and fired an angry glare at Tony. Still, much to my relief, he clicked off his camera and lowered it.
Tony was still furious. "A man died tonight, and this woman has been through enough," he barked. "Go find your story someplace else."
The reporter wasn't giving up so easily. Glaring at his cameraman, he hastily pulled a voice recorder from his pocket and switched it on. "What is your name, sir?" He switched his focus to Tony and thrust the recorder in his face. "Did you witness any of the events that transpired here tonight? What else can you tell us?"
"I can tell you to back off before things get ugly." Tony spoke through clenched teeth. His hands were now balled into fists at his side.
"Jackass," the reporter muttered, putting away his recorder. He turned to his cameraman. "Come on, Pete, let's get out of here." The duo trotted off to their news van, which was half-hidden in the shadows in the farthest corner of the parking lot. I'd been so focused on getting to my car that I hadn't noticed it before.
Tony turned back to face me and held out his hand. "So we meet again." He helped me up. "I usually prefer to sweep girls off their feet, but you just keep doing the sweeping yourself."
Thankfully, it was too dark for him to see me blush. "Thanks again," I said, dusting myself off. "They came out of nowhere." I frowned. "What are you still doing here, anyway? Sinclair said that everyone was gone."
"Actually,
The night seemed eerily calm, with no sound aside from the whispering of the breeze through the trees just inside the fence—not even the occasional car horn or siren. It was rare to experience such quiet in the heart of a city like Atlanta, and it unnerved me. I shivered in the chilly November wind and pulled my coat more tightly around me, quickening my pace. I could just make out the dim lights of the employee parking lot beyond the fence. Rounding the corner, I spotted my grey Jetta, the lone car left in the lot. I found myself regretting the decision to walk out here alone at three in the morning. Don't worry, I reassured myself. Almost there.
I was about to sprint the last few yards when a bright light shone in my face, blinding me. Squinting, I saw the outline of a figure in front of me. I screamed bloody murder and tried to run past, but I couldn't see where I was going. A cracked section of pavement tripped me up, and I went sprawling across the sidewalk. Ouch !
My unknown assailant rushed to my side, and the light followed. Between the sounds of my own cries, I could make out the words "reporter," "eyewitness," and "death." As my eyes adjusted, I could see the blinking red recording light of a video camera, held by a tall cameraman in faded jeans and a green hoodie. The reporter spouting questions at me was a middle-aged man with greying hair and a dark blue suit. I recognized him from one of the local news shows. 'Mark' something.
"Can you tell us about the death here tonight? Our sources say the body belonged to the owner of this establishment, that he jumped from the tower. Is this true? Was it a suicide? " The reporter loomed close to my face and rattled off questions in a rapid-fire manner, not allowing me room to so much as catch my breath, let alone answer.
"Get away from me!" I shrieked, struggling to pull myself off the ground. For the record, neither the reporter nor the cameraman made any attempt to help me up. Rude!
"Leave her alone!" someone called. Rapid footfalls grew louder behind me. I whipped my head around to see Tony Spencer, the hot radio guy, jogging yet again to my rescue. Tim Scott was on his heels.
"Where do you get off, man?" Tony snapped at the reporter. He held up one arm to shield us both from the camera and shoved the cameraman with the other, nearly causing the man's equipment to topple off of his shoulder. The man managed to maintain his balance and fired an angry glare at Tony. Still, much to my relief, he clicked off his camera and lowered it.
Tony was still furious. "A man died tonight, and this woman has been through enough," he barked. "Go find your story someplace else."
The reporter wasn't giving up so easily. Glaring at his cameraman, he hastily pulled a voice recorder from his pocket and switched it on. "What is your name, sir?" He switched his focus to Tony and thrust the recorder in his face. "Did you witness any of the events that transpired here tonight? What else can you tell us?"
"I can tell you to back off before things get ugly." Tony spoke through clenched teeth. His hands were now balled into fists at his side.
"Jackass," the reporter muttered, putting away his recorder. He turned to his cameraman. "Come on, Pete, let's get out of here." The duo trotted off to their news van, which was half-hidden in the shadows in the farthest corner of the parking lot. I'd been so focused on getting to my car that I hadn't noticed it before.
Tony turned back to face me and held out his hand. "So we meet again." He helped me up. "I usually prefer to sweep girls off their feet, but you just keep doing the sweeping yourself."
Thankfully, it was too dark for him to see me blush. "Thanks again," I said, dusting myself off. "They came out of nowhere." I frowned. "What are you still doing here, anyway? Sinclair said that everyone was gone."
"Actually,
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