Bones and Roses Read Online Free PDF Page B

answers mildly, his eyes boring into me.
    Spence Breedlove towers over me at six foot four, which I know to be his height because, when he was star linebacker for the Harbor High Sea Lions, his stats were well documented. The school paper, The Harbor Mouth , reported his every triumph in minute detail (it speaks volumes that I have a better recollection of the winning touchdown he scored in the season playoff than I do of the drunken encounter that led to my deflowering that same year) complete with photo coverage. He was our very own Tom Brady. I see that same face, a bit older but no less handsome, looking at me now: square jaw, cleft chin, hair worn shorter than in high school, so thick it’s like blond turf. Only his eye color is different, a blue not found in nature or his yearbook photo—he’s wearing tinted contacts. Ugh. I wonder if the personal vehicle he drives has vanity plates.
    This, I reflect, is the downside to living your whole life in the same community: Former classmates, whom you would go out of your way to avoid if you were sharing a jail cell with them, have a way of resurfacing like turds in a toilet bowl. The jerky boyfriend you dumped is today’s bank manager with the paperwork for your home loan on his desk. The mean girl who took pleasure in humiliating you for four years straight is the maid of honor at your coworker’s wedding. And the campus stud who lured you upstairs with him while you were drunk at Stacey Schwabacher’s sweet sixteen? He’s the detective in charge of investigating your mother’s murder.
    â€œI have nothing to hide,” I declare, tilting my chin up at him.
    â€œGood. Then how about we continue this conversation down at the station,” he suggests in a voice that tells me I have little choice in the matter. I take a jab at him even so.
    â€œGee, I don’t know. My dance card is kind of full at the moment.”
    He looks taken aback by my sarcasm, then he smiles and spreads his hands in a conciliatory gesture. Hands as big and manly as the rest of him, sporting a sprinkling of hairs the gold of the wedding band on his ring finger. I feel my cheeks warm, thinking about the places they went on my body twenty years ago. “I’m asking nicely.” He speaks in a low voice. “Let’s not make this personal.”
    â€œToo late,” I retort sharply. A few minutes ago, he arrived on the scene without so much as acknowledging my presence. He walked right by me, not saying a word. What was up with that ?
    His eyebrows draw together in a frown. “Look, I’m not the enemy. I’m just doing my job.”
    â€œReally? Do you always show such compassion to bereaved family members or is it just me?”
    â€œTish. Come on now.” I detect a vein of iron ore running through his reasoning tone. “I understand this has been a shock, but I’m sure you’re just as eager to get to the bottom of this as I am.”
    We stare at each other for a beat or two. I’m the first to break eye contact. This is silly. We’re not in high school anymore. And yes, I do want to get to the bottom of this. I blow out a breath, relaxing my stance. “Fine.”
    Ivy steps up alongside me, intervening. “Can’t it wait? She’s in shock.”
    â€œYes, I can see that.” He studies me, and I feel myself grow self-conscious under his gaze. I must look much the same as I did after the regrettable experience of that night I wish I could forget: pale and clammy, my dirty-blond hair hanging in strings around my face, the front of my shirt stained with vomit. “But it’d be best if we went over it while it’s still fresh in your mind,” he says to me.
    â€œYou call that fresh?” I gesticulate wildly in the direction of the two crime scene guys who’re carrying out the body-bagged grisly cargo on a stretcher.
    His voice is the calm eye of the hurricane howling inside me.