Shades of Truth. Sandra OrchardЧитать онлайн книгу.
Aaron’s Mini speeding off. If only he could be in two places at once …
Ethan forced himself to wait. Sweat trickled down his spine.
Every muscle tensed, ready to spring into action.
Five minutes passed. But no one else appeared.
Ethan squeezed past a loose board on the fence and ran for the cover of the Dumpster. He waited another full minute, scanning for any sign he’d been spotted. Seeing none, he lifted the lid.
The putrid odor of marinating garbage knocked him back.
Holding his breath, he ignored the burn of the black metal against his palms, and crawled over the side of the bin.
Aaron’s bag sat perched on a bed of trash.
Ethan snatched it up, slammed down the lid and sucked in a breath. Crouching beside the bin, he checked again to ensure no one was looking, then opened the bag.
It held two packets of white powder.
Ethan stared at the packets in confusion. If the rendezvous back there was what it looked like, why’d Aaron toss the drugs?
Had the handoff been some kind of test?
Ethan mentally reviewed what he knew about the man. A degree in community justice. Nine years’ experience at the Hamilton youth detention center with an exemplary record. Although twice he’d applied to the police force and had been passed over.
On Mr. Corbett’s recommendation, Hope Manor’s board had hired Aaron as deputy director eight months ago. Now Mr. Corbett’s sudden turn for the worse had spring-boarded Aaron to the manor’s top position, surpassing not only senior employees, but the founder’s two children.
Not that Kim appeared to hold any resentment.
On the contrary, if Aaron’s “I’ll see her tonight” could be believed, Kim considered him a friend. Maybe more than a friend.
Ethan crushed the bag in his fist and hurried to his car. He needed to know what Kim knew about Aaron Sheppard.
The instant the front door closed, Kim bolted from the couch. She’d thought Ginny would never go home.
Kim grabbed her car keys and headed for the door. If she didn’t hurry, Darryl would catch her leaving. He’d be so livid, she’d never make it to Blake’s.
Working with the residents to help them reach for a better life was so much a part of who they were, she couldn’t understand why Darryl wasn’t as determined as her to safeguard Dad’s legacy.
Kim drove to the east side of town where Blake shared a row house with his older brother. The nearby candy factory was the sole remnant of the neighborhood’s economic glory days. And as she pulled onto their street, the sickeningly sweet scent of gumdrops hung so thick in the air she could taste it.
Dingy stucco houses squatted feet from the sidewalk, their porch roofs drooping over sagging front porches as if sinking into a drunken stupor.
The odd boarded-up window added to the effect. While duct tape crisscrossed others like slashes on a desperate teen’s wrists.
Driveways were conspicuously absent. Instead, scraggly hedges offered what meager privacy was to be had from encroaching neighbors.
Here and there a rusted-out pickup languished at the curb. The sole sign of prosperity until a gust of wind chased a crumpled fast-food bag up the street and into … Blake’s white sports car.
Kim’s heart jerked. No one in this end of town drove a car like that unless they were dealing drugs.
She tightened her grip on the steering wheel and pulled to a stop. How had she thought she could do this?
She dropped her forehead to her hands and gave in to the shakes that had dogged her all day. Maybe Ethan was right. Maybe she should’ve called the police.
His troubled voice whispered through her mind. What are you afraid of, Kim?
She sucked in a breath. She wasn’t afraid. Not of anything Blake might do to her. Not really. She was well trained in self-defense. Not that she’d need to use it. She was here to talk.
Nothing more.
So why was she still trembling?
She pictured Dad lying in his hospital bed. She couldn’t fail him. She wouldn’t. Clasping her hands, she prayed the words she’d heard her father pray time and again. Lord, please let Blake see Your love in me.
Strengthened by the prayer, Kim stepped out of the car and limped toward Blake’s house.
The ping of a stone drew her around. But no one was there. Not on the sidewalk. Not in the minuscule weed-infested yards. Not in …
She tried to peer through the windshields of the pickups parked along the street, and through the windows of the houses, but the reflections made seeing anything impossible.
Despite temperatures that could fry an egg, a shiver fingered the back of her neck. She told herself she was being paranoid.
Even so, she clawed her keys between the fingers of her right hand and palmed her cell phone in her left.
Shouting cut into her thoughts.
Her pulse quickened. The voice sounded like Darryl’s.
She traced the sound to an open window at the side of Blake’s house, well back from the street. She should’ve known Darryl intended to confront Blake himself when he agreed so easily not to involve the police.
She edged closer, staying out of sight of the window.
Blake said something she couldn’t make out, and Darryl exploded into a rage. “If I see you within a mile of my sister, you’ll be looking at the inside of a jail cell so fast your head’ll spin.”
Blake laughed. A scoffing, ugly sound. “I go down, you go down. You hear what I’m saying?”
Shock trapped Kim’s breath in her throat. What did Blake mean?
He couldn’t possibly have anything on her brother. Darryl might have his faults—like being overprotective—but he was as honest as they came.
Darryl never should’ve told Blake they were related. They always operated on a first-name basis with residents, precisely to avoid these kinds of threats. How many times had Dad drilled that into them?
She slumped against the wall, sending an empty beer can toppling from the window ledge to the cement slab below. She froze.
“What was that noise?” Blake demanded. Chair legs abruptly scraped the floor.
Kim sprang to her feet and sprinted toward the street. Her ankle screamed, but instinct propelled her. Never mind that Darryl would never let Blake hurt her.
The keys dug into her clenched fist. Her heart pounded in her ears. She heard a sound behind her. But she didn’t dare glance back.
She cleared the hedge bordering the yard and skidded to a stop.
Two grungy-looking punks were circling her car. Slowly. Deliberately. Peering in windows. Trying the doors. One of them—a pockmarked teen with jeans sagging to his knees—slapped a baseball bat against his palm, looking ready to take a swing at her windshield.
Icy fear shot through her veins. She backed up a step.
The second kid crouched next to her tires and pulled a knife from his pocket.
Behind her a door slammed. Darryl?
She opened her mouth to yell for help, but the word died in her throat. So far those punks hadn’t seen her. Better to keep it that way.
A truck roared to life.
“There she is,” the kid with the knife yelled.
Baseball Bat shot her a poisonous glare.
For