Read Online The Drowning Man by Sara Vinduska - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sara Vinduska
Ads: Link
the last fucking thing he needed. He stayed on the floor where he was. Whoever was outside could come back later.
Or not. He didn't give a shit.
The pounding didn’t stop. Trent somehow made it to his feet and across the apartment to the front door. He looked out and cursed when he saw who it was. “What the fuck do you want?” he asked as he jerked the door open.
Detective Justice Woods studied him for a long moment, his gaze lingering on Trent’s bloody hands, then he looked around the apartment, right hand staying near his gun. “Everything okay in here?”
“I’m fine,” Trent growled.
“Yeah. Mind if I come in for a sec?” Woods asked.
Trent shrugged and stepped aside.
Woods limped a few steps into the living room. His eyes dropped to the axe on the floor in the hallway. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”
“Not really.”
“Right,” Woods said. “Suppose you don’t want to tell me what happened to your hands either.”
Trent laughed and collapsed onto the couch.
Woods continued down the hall. He let out a long slow whistle when he got to the bathroom. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered.
He came back into the living room. Trent was still on the couch, head leaned back, eyes closed. He heard Woods lower himself into the chair across from him. “Feel better now?”
Trent opened his eyes and stared wearily at him. “I’m really not sure how to answer that question, Detective Woods.”
“Fair enough.” He nodded at Trent’s hands. “Need a doctor?”
“No. They’re not deep. Why the hell did you come here anyway?”
“One of your neighbors heard the ruckus, called 911.” He spread his arms. “Lucky me, I was the one on watch duty outside your building.”
Trent sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Shouldn't you be out on disability or something?”
“Probably, but babysitting you was a compromise with the higher ups.”
Trent grunted.
“I’ll clear everything with your landlord, call a plumber I know, have him here first thing in the morning.” Woods stood with a slight grimace. “You need anything, you call me.”
“Yeah, sure,” Trent said as the detective let himself out.
Trent didn't bother to get up and lock the door behind him. Giving up on sleep, he grabbed the remote and another beer and settled onto the couch, absentmindedly flipping through the channels, occasionally dozing then jerking awake minutes later.
He was still awake when the doorbell rang promptly at 8 a.m. the next morning. The surprisingly well-dressed middle-aged man in neatly pressed khakis and a polo shirt followed Trent into his wreck of a bathroom. The man looked around and let out a low whistle. “What in the hell did that bathtub ever do to you, son?” he asked.
“Don't ask,” Trent said, then made his way to the kitchen, hoping some Tylenol and coffee would ease his headache.
He swallowed three of the white capsules while he waited for the coffee to brew. Rubbing his temples, he stepped outside to get the paper. Taking a deep breath of the crisp morning air, the pressure in his head eased.
The headache came back full force as soon as he opened the pages on his way back inside and saw the picture on page three. He was standing over the reporter on his brother's front lawn, fist drawn back, the look on his face like a crazed animal. At least the reporter hadn't pressed charges for assault.
He grabbed a mug, slammed the cabinet door shut, and jerked the pot off the burner. He congratulated himself on managing to fill the mug without spilling any of the hot, dark liquid.
His eyes stopped on a tiny dark grey smear on the white paint of his windowsill. Fingerprint dust. How much of it had his brother and Amy cleaned up? And how much of his stuff had the cops searched through? A new feeling of violation made his stomach churn.
He looked around the kitchen, feeling anything but at home. His eyes stopped again on the blinking message light on his answering machine. He hadn't paid any
Or not. He didn't give a shit.
The pounding didn’t stop. Trent somehow made it to his feet and across the apartment to the front door. He looked out and cursed when he saw who it was. “What the fuck do you want?” he asked as he jerked the door open.
Detective Justice Woods studied him for a long moment, his gaze lingering on Trent’s bloody hands, then he looked around the apartment, right hand staying near his gun. “Everything okay in here?”
“I’m fine,” Trent growled.
“Yeah. Mind if I come in for a sec?” Woods asked.
Trent shrugged and stepped aside.
Woods limped a few steps into the living room. His eyes dropped to the axe on the floor in the hallway. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”
“Not really.”
“Right,” Woods said. “Suppose you don’t want to tell me what happened to your hands either.”
Trent laughed and collapsed onto the couch.
Woods continued down the hall. He let out a long slow whistle when he got to the bathroom. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered.
He came back into the living room. Trent was still on the couch, head leaned back, eyes closed. He heard Woods lower himself into the chair across from him. “Feel better now?”
Trent opened his eyes and stared wearily at him. “I’m really not sure how to answer that question, Detective Woods.”
“Fair enough.” He nodded at Trent’s hands. “Need a doctor?”
“No. They’re not deep. Why the hell did you come here anyway?”
“One of your neighbors heard the ruckus, called 911.” He spread his arms. “Lucky me, I was the one on watch duty outside your building.”
Trent sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Shouldn't you be out on disability or something?”
“Probably, but babysitting you was a compromise with the higher ups.”
Trent grunted.
“I’ll clear everything with your landlord, call a plumber I know, have him here first thing in the morning.” Woods stood with a slight grimace. “You need anything, you call me.”
“Yeah, sure,” Trent said as the detective let himself out.
Trent didn't bother to get up and lock the door behind him. Giving up on sleep, he grabbed the remote and another beer and settled onto the couch, absentmindedly flipping through the channels, occasionally dozing then jerking awake minutes later.
He was still awake when the doorbell rang promptly at 8 a.m. the next morning. The surprisingly well-dressed middle-aged man in neatly pressed khakis and a polo shirt followed Trent into his wreck of a bathroom. The man looked around and let out a low whistle. “What in the hell did that bathtub ever do to you, son?” he asked.
“Don't ask,” Trent said, then made his way to the kitchen, hoping some Tylenol and coffee would ease his headache.
He swallowed three of the white capsules while he waited for the coffee to brew. Rubbing his temples, he stepped outside to get the paper. Taking a deep breath of the crisp morning air, the pressure in his head eased.
The headache came back full force as soon as he opened the pages on his way back inside and saw the picture on page three. He was standing over the reporter on his brother's front lawn, fist drawn back, the look on his face like a crazed animal. At least the reporter hadn't pressed charges for assault.
He grabbed a mug, slammed the cabinet door shut, and jerked the pot off the burner. He congratulated himself on managing to fill the mug without spilling any of the hot, dark liquid.
His eyes stopped on a tiny dark grey smear on the white paint of his windowsill. Fingerprint dust. How much of it had his brother and Amy cleaned up? And how much of his stuff had the cops searched through? A new feeling of violation made his stomach churn.
He looked around the kitchen, feeling anything but at home. His eyes stopped again on the blinking message light on his answering machine. He hadn't paid any
Similar Books
