Read Online The Ninth Step by Barbara Taylor Sissel - Free Book Online Page B

kidding? That’s who Humphrey’s named for. He’s like my all-time fave. I bet I’ve seen Casablanca twenty times.”
    Cotton couldn’t believe she knew who Humphrey Bogart was, and actually, in his dog’s case, Bogey had been for Bogus, but somehow, she seemed so pleased with the coincidence that he  didn’t want to set the story straight.
    “Nikki. . . ?”
    She turned and in the time it took for Wes Latimer to come down the length of the driveway, Cotton had an impression of height that was tending to thickness in the middle, tan chinos, blue Polo dress shirt, pulled loose and open at the throat, sleeves rolled to the elbow.
    He had the impression of a man who was middle-aged and harried, loaded down with obligations, responsibilities, but maybe Cotton put the weight there himself out of guilt, because from his research, he happened to know that in addition to running his own business, Wes Latimer was a single dad, that he’d never remarried.
    So, now Cotton was going to tell him, this regular guy and his little girl, what he’d done. He was going to rip the roof right off their lives, peel the loose open friendliness from their faces. Yeah. That’s what he’d come for. What he had to do. Great guy that he was. He wiped his hands down the sides of his jeans. He made himself stand still, made himself wait. It was the least he could do. But god, he was scared, so damned scared.
    Nikki said, “The man’s here about the studio, Daddy. He’s already passed the Doofus test.”
    Studio? Cotton looked at her.
    Wes introduced himself, giving his name, “Wes Latimer,” going on, “I see you’ve met my daughter, Nikki, and Doofus, the family flake.” He stuck out his hand, and Cotton shook it, feeling perplexed, more than a little dazed.
    “What was your name again?” Wes asked. He touched his temple. “I’m sorry, I’m bad with names.”
    “Cotton O’Dell,” he said.
    “The job’s this way.” Wes turned back toward the house. Nikki and the dog fell into step with him.
    Job? Cotton followed, bewilderment increasing. “Uh, I think there’s been some misunderstanding.”
    Wes pulled up short at the corner of the house. “Misunderstanding? I’d say that doesn’t begin to cover it, wouldn’t you?”
    Cotton came up beside him. “Wow.” He took a few steps farther into the yard, forgetting himself, intrigued by the proportions of the disaster. “What happened?”
    “Well, it’s like I told you on the phone, the first guy we hired made a good start. He got the material, lumber, shingles, everything--” Wes swept his hand at the loaded pallets that stood in a row beside what, at one time, must have been a detached garage-- “but he only stuck around long enough to start the demo. He got a couple grand off me and we never saw him again.”
    Cotton walked the perimeter of the building, thinking this was it, the source for all the noise he’d wondered about during his covert hours of surveillance; thinking the Latimers had obviously mistaken him for someone professional, a contractor or a carpenter.
    Oh, God, if only. . . .
    He paused at the separate porch entrance, flattened his palm against the column. The wood still held the warmth of the day. “What’s your plan here?”
    “It’s supposed to be my studio,” Nikki said.
    “It was the kids’ playroom,” Wes said, “until Nikki’s brother Trevor got old enough to want his own space. We remodeled then, but now Trev’s off to college and girl wonder here wants to--”
    “Dad, please. . . .” Nikki’s tone was long suffering.
    “Please what?”
    “You know, that name, I’m too old for it now.”
    Wes chuckled. “Sorry, kiddo.”
    She rolled her eyes. Cotton guessed she thought she was too old to be called “kiddo”, too.
    Wes was saying that he and Nikki had attempted to tackle the job themselves. “Didn’t take us long to realize we’re in over our heads.”
    “Dad says we only know enough to be dangerous.”
    “Nikki’s a