Read Online Tell No Lies by Tanya Anne Crosby - Free Book Online
Authors: Tanya Anne Crosby
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danced against his ribs.
The sound of a boat engine.
He waited patiently for it to come near and then when he thought it was close enough, he opened his mouth to scream. All that came out was a choked sound that scared the bird away . . . and then the engine slowly faded . . . leaving Cody alone in the deepening shadows.
He began to cry.
Replete from dinner, Augusta lay sprawled on one couch, Savannah on the other. Nearly empty, the bottle of wine sat on the table between them. Both of them had tried calling Caroline, but without much luck.
Rose Simmons had died, the news announced. The woman who had been the closest thing to a grandparent Augusta had ever had had slipped away without ever having awakened—a small mercy that she didn’t know her grandson was still missing.
On the muted television, the image of reporter Sandra Rivers paraded through the abandoned cemetery where the body of Pamela Baker had been discovered late last evening. Instead of the news, it looked more like an episode of Cold Case Files . Rivers seemed to know exactly where to direct her cameraman for the greatest impact, and somehow the lens always ended up right back on the reporter’s perfect lipstick and lovely green eyes. The woman had sensationalism down to a science. Augusta’s name suddenly scrolled across the screen and her heart leapt a little. She sat up, peering anxiously at Savannah to see if she had seen it as well, but her sister had begun to yawn, no longer paying attention to the news.
The banner shifted. Ian Patterson Free on Bail, the screen said, and next to it the disclosed sum of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Augusta’s name was gone.
Soon everyone would know—especially now that Rivers had gotten wind of the fact. But the only person Augusta dreaded having to tell was Caroline. She glanced at the clock on the wall again, her heart pounding like a fist against her lungs. It was 10 P.M .
What were the chances Caroline had heard by now?
Pretty good, she decided.
Caroline had stepped neatly into her mother’s shoes as publisher of the Tribune . There wasn’t much that escaped her these days. The thing was . . . if Caroline knew, she probably would have come storming home by now with Augusta in her crosshairs.
Briefly, she considered telling Savannah on the off chance that she might gain an ally, but Savannah probably wasn’t going to approve either, so she’d rather save it and tell them both at once.
Chickenshit.
Most people thought Augusta was full of pluck, but God’s truth, she was trembling on the inside. Why, she didn’t know. Caroline wasn’t her mother. Nor had she committed any sin here. She had simply made an honest decision based on a strong gut feeling.
On the other couch, Savannah was blissfully unaware of the message on the screen, sipping her wine, eyes closed. Augusta settled back onto the sofa.
The den hadn’t changed much in the years since Augusta had left home. The same cherrywood raised paneled walls, the same portraits on the walls. Only the carpet and couches were new, probably because her mother had been a Type-A germaphobe. Anything organic had been recycled religiously and a single spot on the carpet started the end clock ticking. Kids with chocolate fingers were generally not welcome anywhere within Flo’s house. And yet, despite that fact, the den was the one room in the house that had always felt welcoming.
For one thing, it was the only room with a television, which gave it a certain normalcy, though Augusta couldn’t imagine her mother watching TV.
Then again . . . she wouldn’t really know, would she?
Only Savannah had spent much time with her at the end. For all Augusta knew, Flo had sat here alone night after night, with their grandmother’s quilt strewn over her legs, alone and forgotten, watching reruns of Jeopardy .
But that wasn’t the image that thrived in Augusta’s head. Her mother had never been one to sit still long enough to watch a single
The sound of a boat engine.
He waited patiently for it to come near and then when he thought it was close enough, he opened his mouth to scream. All that came out was a choked sound that scared the bird away . . . and then the engine slowly faded . . . leaving Cody alone in the deepening shadows.
He began to cry.
Replete from dinner, Augusta lay sprawled on one couch, Savannah on the other. Nearly empty, the bottle of wine sat on the table between them. Both of them had tried calling Caroline, but without much luck.
Rose Simmons had died, the news announced. The woman who had been the closest thing to a grandparent Augusta had ever had had slipped away without ever having awakened—a small mercy that she didn’t know her grandson was still missing.
On the muted television, the image of reporter Sandra Rivers paraded through the abandoned cemetery where the body of Pamela Baker had been discovered late last evening. Instead of the news, it looked more like an episode of Cold Case Files . Rivers seemed to know exactly where to direct her cameraman for the greatest impact, and somehow the lens always ended up right back on the reporter’s perfect lipstick and lovely green eyes. The woman had sensationalism down to a science. Augusta’s name suddenly scrolled across the screen and her heart leapt a little. She sat up, peering anxiously at Savannah to see if she had seen it as well, but her sister had begun to yawn, no longer paying attention to the news.
The banner shifted. Ian Patterson Free on Bail, the screen said, and next to it the disclosed sum of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Augusta’s name was gone.
Soon everyone would know—especially now that Rivers had gotten wind of the fact. But the only person Augusta dreaded having to tell was Caroline. She glanced at the clock on the wall again, her heart pounding like a fist against her lungs. It was 10 P.M .
What were the chances Caroline had heard by now?
Pretty good, she decided.
Caroline had stepped neatly into her mother’s shoes as publisher of the Tribune . There wasn’t much that escaped her these days. The thing was . . . if Caroline knew, she probably would have come storming home by now with Augusta in her crosshairs.
Briefly, she considered telling Savannah on the off chance that she might gain an ally, but Savannah probably wasn’t going to approve either, so she’d rather save it and tell them both at once.
Chickenshit.
Most people thought Augusta was full of pluck, but God’s truth, she was trembling on the inside. Why, she didn’t know. Caroline wasn’t her mother. Nor had she committed any sin here. She had simply made an honest decision based on a strong gut feeling.
On the other couch, Savannah was blissfully unaware of the message on the screen, sipping her wine, eyes closed. Augusta settled back onto the sofa.
The den hadn’t changed much in the years since Augusta had left home. The same cherrywood raised paneled walls, the same portraits on the walls. Only the carpet and couches were new, probably because her mother had been a Type-A germaphobe. Anything organic had been recycled religiously and a single spot on the carpet started the end clock ticking. Kids with chocolate fingers were generally not welcome anywhere within Flo’s house. And yet, despite that fact, the den was the one room in the house that had always felt welcoming.
For one thing, it was the only room with a television, which gave it a certain normalcy, though Augusta couldn’t imagine her mother watching TV.
Then again . . . she wouldn’t really know, would she?
Only Savannah had spent much time with her at the end. For all Augusta knew, Flo had sat here alone night after night, with their grandmother’s quilt strewn over her legs, alone and forgotten, watching reruns of Jeopardy .
But that wasn’t the image that thrived in Augusta’s head. Her mother had never been one to sit still long enough to watch a single
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