Hidden Pearl Read Online Free PDF Page B

belligerent.
    "Because I said so. Show me her apartment and if everything's still there, I'll pay what she owed. Nobody but a brother would be willing to do that." S.T. knew that wasn't strictly speaking true, knew the manager probably knew it too, but he was betting on the man's greed.
    S.T. could see the calculations in the man's eyes as he considered before he said, "Okay." He reached up and grabbed a key from the wall behind him. "But if she don't like this when she comes back, you explain it to her."
    S.T. nodded and followed the man back out into the sunlight, down a sidewalk to a two story addition. They walked up the stairs where the manager stopped in front of a door that looked as though someone had once kicked it in.
    "Was she burglarized?" S.T. asked as they entered the quiet apartment.
    "You mean the door?" the man asked. "If she was, she never reported it to me. I figure it was a boyfriend or something. Damage is going to have to be paid for."
    S.T. smiled coldly. "When you can prove Shonna did it."
    The man shrugged. "How about that rent check? She owed me four hundred bucks"
    "I want to look around." S.T. dug into his jeans pocket for his wallet.
    "No skin off my nose," the manager said, his eyes widening as S.T. peeled off four one hundred dollar bills.
    "I'll want a receipt."
    "Sure, sure," the manager said, grabbing the money. "Take your time here. I'll have it ready when you come back down. You want her stuff?"
    “No.” S.T. gave him another hundred. “I’ll take what I want, you get rid of the rest.”
    When he was alone in the apartment, the door closed, S.T. looked around, trying to see any sign of his sister in the sterile, worn environment. The pictures on the wall looked to have come from a discount store. Maybe she hadn't even furnished this place. He had forgotten to ask. The sofa and matching chair were some kind of pink, the fabrics frayed, the cushions misshapen. The little television in the corner looked past the age of working. He didn’t care to test it.
    Walking through the room, thinking about his sister walking the same route, S.T. opened the door to a small hall leading to the bedroom. He had spent years dismissing his family from his mind. He wouldn’t have known Shonna if he had seen her walk through the door. He'd not let himself think about her, about the shared memories he had only with her. Suddenly he wished he'd thought of her sooner, wished he'd tried to find her before she seemingly disappeared.
    In the bedroom were a few photographs on the bureau, no one he recognized and a newspaper clipping in front of them. He picked it up and didn't need to read the article to know it was about him, one of the rare pieces he hadn't been able to suppress. 
    S.T. didn’t want to think about the possibility that she had cared what he was doing. If she had, why hadn't she come to Portland, looked him up?
    On the bedside stand was a small stack of books. Picking up the top one, he saw the author's name was Peter Soul, the book titled "Salvation or Enslavement." The ones beneath it were all by Soul.
    Straightening, S.T. walked over to the closet, his mind filled with more questions. Questions to which he doubted he'd find the answers in this barren little apartment. The closet held two dresses, a blouse, a pair of old jeans and a pair of worn high-heeled shoes, sandals with a broken strap. Nothing told him anything except that his sister had been slender and liked the color pink.
     
    #
     
    Sipping a cup of coffee at the closest cafe to his sister's apartment, S.T. considered what little information he'd managed to glean.  An aging newspaper clipping, a sparse lifestyle, no clue as to what paid for it, an interest in Peter Soul's writings. 
    "Can I get you anything besides coffee?" the waitress asked.
    He looked up, taking in her round, youthful face. He saw her eyes go from his face, down his body, then back with obvious interest. "Maybe," he said." Did you know Shonna