Read Online Portrait of a Dead Guy by Larissa Reinhart - Free Book Online Page A

chatted in the doorway.
    This wasn’t good.
    “Painting?” I squeaked.
    “And how did you get in?” Will asked, faking patience.
    “With a key,” I said, staring at the ceiling. The heat creeping into my face made me more woozy.
    “A key given to you by...?”
    “Am I going to need a lawyer?” I closed my eyes. The droning wail of a siren grew louder. “I don’t need an ambulance. I can’t afford an ambulance.”
    “How do you know it’s for you?”
    My eyes snapped open.
    “It’s for you,” said Will. “First we’ll take you to the ER to get your head checked. Then you’ll get a little trip to the station.”
    “Uncle Will,” I shot up despite the weight of his hand on my shoulder and nearly passed out. “The station? Seriously? That’s all the way in Line Creek. Think of your budget. Do you really want the taxpayers footing the bill to haul me to jail? I just came in to paint Dustin.”
    “Let’s see,” Will tapped his chin. “I’m looking at destruction of property. Breaking and entering. Battery. Can’t tell if there’s been a robbery yet. Trespassing at the very least.”
    “Oh God,” I said, burying my face in my hands.
    “Praying is always good at times like these.” His thick fingers tentatively searched my hair for a lump. “That’s a nice goose egg right there. I should have put on gloves.” He wiped his fingers on the tarp, leaving a smear of purple.
    “What’s this?” he said, pointing to something beneath my bent legs. “Just a minute, don’t move.” He pulled a pen from his pocket and used it to drag the object from under the shadow of my body. The little gray bag slipped out.
    “Ugh,” I shuddered. “There’s the whole reason for this mess.”
    Will’s head jerked up, and he cornered me with a sharp gaze. “Explain.”
    “I was trying to fix Dustin’s pocket, because that bag was inside, when someone walloped me.” I grabbed Will’s arm and started to babble. “I just came in here to paint, honest, Uncle Will. I’m trying to get a jump on the project so Shawna doesn’t collect the commission money. She wants to color over a picture and call it a portrait. We’re not talking Andy Warhol silk screen stuff. It’s not even Photoshop tinting. If the Bransons choose her painting over mine, everyone will follow their lead. It’s going to ruin my business and ruin the craft. She can’t be allowed to call something like Paintograph art.”
    Rolling his eyes, he scooped up the pouch in his hand. “I need an evidence bag,” he called to a deputy behind him.
    “What about fingerprints?”
    “If I could pull prints off a cloth bag,” he said, “whose prints do you think I’m going to find?”
    “Damn.”
    “Exactly. What’s in here anyway?” He rolled the bag in his hand. “Feels kind of nasty.” He pulled open the drawstring and sprinkled some of the contents into his hand. Small, yellow objects rolled within his palm. A shiver ran through me.
    “You missing any teeth?” he said.

     
    “I don’t see why we have to eat here,” I said, stirring my cheese grits. “I have bad memories from the Waffle House. And now I’m going to associate hash browns with getting sucker punched in the head.”
    “Just eat your food and stop your whining,” said my brother, Cody. “You said you were starving, and where else could we go?” He pointed with his knife and resumed sawing his ribeye. “I mean, look at you. You look like you dunked yourself in a paint bucket.”
    My clothes looked like a Jackson Pollock experiment. Globs of plasticized purple stuck in my fine hair. The paint matched the doorknob sized bump on the back of my head.
    “I don’t think you look too bad,” said Todd. “If you kind of pushed your hair up into a Mohawk and ripped your t-shirt, we could drive up to Atlanta and find a punk club.”
    “Why did you bring him?” I asked Cody.
    “He was at Red’s when I got your call.” Cody pulled off his battered Braves cap and