Read Online What Doesn’t Kill Her by Max Allan Collins - Free Book Online
Authors: Max Allan Collins
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go over that now, or—”
“Or later,” she said, getting up. She nodded at him. “Thanks, Mr. Terrell. I’ll do some digesting.”
And try not to choke on the way down.
“Good, Jordan. Thank you. Really glad to see you looking so well. So fine. A regular young woman.”
She
was
a young woman—that much she knew. Not a girl anymore. Not a high school girl with hopes and dreams, but a woman, a young woman.
Just not a regular one.
Now, still in the lotus position, as she opened her eyes to look around her efficiency apartment, she knew she could live in a condo or a house at least as nice as their old one, but what good would it do? Funny thing was, when she began thinking about the possibilities of a new, nicer, much bigger place, right away she knew that Jimmy would be the perfect guy to help her pick things out and really decorate the place.
Jimmy, who she appreciated a lot more now that he was gone. At St. Dimpna’s, thinking about her family, it was Jimmy who she had missed the most, surprisingly. How she wished she could tell him what a really good older brother he’d been.
But there would be no bigger, better living quarters for her. She had only a GED earned in a mental institution, but she knew how to do this math:
the less she spent on herself, the more she’d have to track down the killer of her family.
Dr. Hurst had helped her find this simple single-room apartment, not far from St. Dimpna’s. Blue-collar, ethnically diverse, the historic Ohio Citydistrict was far removed from her experiences in suburban Westlake. She might have been dropped on Mars. But she had already adjusted.
Getting this apartment meant she was an easy walk from St. Dimpna’s—she not only had no driver’s license, she hadn’t even finished driver’s ed yet when her life was yanked out from under her. This way, she would be close to her support group, and Kara.
The white-walled apartment was as spare as it was small, its kitchen little more than one wall with a few cupboards, an apartment-sized refrigerator, a small stove, a minuscule microwave, a single well sink, and a black-topped table with two chairs. This galley setup should be more than sufficient. Her mom had been a terrific cook, and Jordan had picked some of it up; but her menu would be salads and fresh fruit supplanted by microwave and boiling-bag cuisine.
The wall opposite was home to a laptop computer (the newly rich girl’s first major purchase), which—with its Internet connection—was the closest thing to a luxury in her monk-like existence… and even that was a tool for her investigation.
Under the windows, near the door to the tiny bathroom, a mattress and box spring crouched on the floor. She would never
ever
hide under another bed.
No television, no radio, no pictures on the wall. The only personal item was a photo of her family on a small plastic table near the head of the bed where it shared space with an LED alarm clock. An artist’s sketch pad on the dining table rested next to a box of colored pencils.
She had always been good at sketching. In another life, drawing had been a release, a simple pleasure—now it was a skill to be utilized. Just this morning, she had begun drawing. When she was finished, she would have a distributable picture of the man she sought. Recalling him vividly was not difficult—those ten years could be blinked away.
The alarm clock beeped. She uncurled, rose, and strode over to turn it off. Two hours until her next meeting with the Victims of Violent Crime. Funny—she would have expected a politically correct euphemism for thegroup—Survivors’ Support Group maybe. As if they’d all been on a dumb reality TV show and got voted off.
No, somebody at Dimpna’s, maybe Dr. Hurst, understood that what she had been through, what David and Phillip and the rest had experienced, would not be soothed by soft language.
Just enough time to dress, get to St. Dimpna’s, then visit Kara beforehand. Normally, she
“Or later,” she said, getting up. She nodded at him. “Thanks, Mr. Terrell. I’ll do some digesting.”
And try not to choke on the way down.
“Good, Jordan. Thank you. Really glad to see you looking so well. So fine. A regular young woman.”
She
was
a young woman—that much she knew. Not a girl anymore. Not a high school girl with hopes and dreams, but a woman, a young woman.
Just not a regular one.
Now, still in the lotus position, as she opened her eyes to look around her efficiency apartment, she knew she could live in a condo or a house at least as nice as their old one, but what good would it do? Funny thing was, when she began thinking about the possibilities of a new, nicer, much bigger place, right away she knew that Jimmy would be the perfect guy to help her pick things out and really decorate the place.
Jimmy, who she appreciated a lot more now that he was gone. At St. Dimpna’s, thinking about her family, it was Jimmy who she had missed the most, surprisingly. How she wished she could tell him what a really good older brother he’d been.
But there would be no bigger, better living quarters for her. She had only a GED earned in a mental institution, but she knew how to do this math:
the less she spent on herself, the more she’d have to track down the killer of her family.
Dr. Hurst had helped her find this simple single-room apartment, not far from St. Dimpna’s. Blue-collar, ethnically diverse, the historic Ohio Citydistrict was far removed from her experiences in suburban Westlake. She might have been dropped on Mars. But she had already adjusted.
Getting this apartment meant she was an easy walk from St. Dimpna’s—she not only had no driver’s license, she hadn’t even finished driver’s ed yet when her life was yanked out from under her. This way, she would be close to her support group, and Kara.
The white-walled apartment was as spare as it was small, its kitchen little more than one wall with a few cupboards, an apartment-sized refrigerator, a small stove, a minuscule microwave, a single well sink, and a black-topped table with two chairs. This galley setup should be more than sufficient. Her mom had been a terrific cook, and Jordan had picked some of it up; but her menu would be salads and fresh fruit supplanted by microwave and boiling-bag cuisine.
The wall opposite was home to a laptop computer (the newly rich girl’s first major purchase), which—with its Internet connection—was the closest thing to a luxury in her monk-like existence… and even that was a tool for her investigation.
Under the windows, near the door to the tiny bathroom, a mattress and box spring crouched on the floor. She would never
ever
hide under another bed.
No television, no radio, no pictures on the wall. The only personal item was a photo of her family on a small plastic table near the head of the bed where it shared space with an LED alarm clock. An artist’s sketch pad on the dining table rested next to a box of colored pencils.
She had always been good at sketching. In another life, drawing had been a release, a simple pleasure—now it was a skill to be utilized. Just this morning, she had begun drawing. When she was finished, she would have a distributable picture of the man she sought. Recalling him vividly was not difficult—those ten years could be blinked away.
The alarm clock beeped. She uncurled, rose, and strode over to turn it off. Two hours until her next meeting with the Victims of Violent Crime. Funny—she would have expected a politically correct euphemism for thegroup—Survivors’ Support Group maybe. As if they’d all been on a dumb reality TV show and got voted off.
No, somebody at Dimpna’s, maybe Dr. Hurst, understood that what she had been through, what David and Phillip and the rest had experienced, would not be soothed by soft language.
Just enough time to dress, get to St. Dimpna’s, then visit Kara beforehand. Normally, she
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