Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 01 Read Online Free PDF Page B

hind legs and walked away, like he’d done his job.
    He
knew
he had the power.
    I was wrong. I’m not close yet. My feet weigh a ton, and I start to feel stupid for living in the park, tell myself I’m not it’s a smart decision.
    What’s the choice, something like the Melodie Anne? That’s a building on Selma, just off the Boulevard, burnt-out from a fire, with the windows boarded up. Lots of kids crash there, and late at night you can see them bringing older guys in there. Sometimes you actually see them giving the old guys blow jobs right outside in the alley, boys and girls.
    I would rather kill myself than do that. Suicide is a sin, but so is living the wrong life.
    I check the Casio: 4:04. I must be close. No matter how many lists I try, my head is filled with terrible pictures. Men hurting women, dogs killing dogs, planes blowing up, kids snatched from their bedrooms, drive-by shootings, blood everywhere.
    I think about Mom but see Moron instead and now I’m thinking about the way he called Mom a whore all the time and she took it, just sat there.
    On bad days he hit her. I used to close my eyes, grind my teeth, try to beam myself somewhere else. For a long time, I couldn’t understand why she took him in. Then I figured out she thinks she’s not worth much ’cause she’s got no education and he’s what she deserves.
    She met him at the Sunnyside, which is where she finds all the losers she brings home. She wasn’t working there anymore, but she was still going there to drink and watch TV and joke with the guys shooting pool.
    The other losers never stayed long and they ignored me. The first night she brought Moron home he stank up the trailer with body odor and motorcycle grease. The two of them got stoned. I was out on the sleeper couch, could smell the joints they lit up, hear them laughing, then the bed squeaking. I put my fingers in my ears and got totally under the blankets.
    The next morning he came out into the front room naked, holding his shorts in one hand, flaps and folds of tattooed fat all over his body. I pretended to still be sleeping. He opened the door, grunted, put his shorts on, and went outside to pee. When he finished he said, “
Yeah,
” and cleared his throat and spit.
    On the way back to Mom’s bed, he tripped and his knee came down on my back. It felt like an elephant crushing me; I couldn’t breathe. He came back, went into the kitchen, got a box of Cap’n Crunch, and scooped cereal into his mouth, spilling it all over.
    I pretended to wake up. He said, “Oh man, a rug rat. Hell, Sharla, you didn’t say you had onea
them.
”
    Mom laughed from the bedroom. “We wasn’t
talking
much, was we, cowboy?”
    Moron laughed too, then he held out a hand for a high five. His nails were black around the edges and his fingers were the size and color of hot dogs.
    “Motor Moran, bro. Who’re you?” For such a big guy he had a high voice.
    “Billy.”
    “Billy what?”
    “Billy Straight.”
    “Ha, same as her—so you got no daddy. Little fuckin’ accident, huh?” I lowered my hand, but he grabbed it, shook it hard, hurting me, looking to see if I’d show it. I ignored him.
    “This your cereal, bro?”
    “Kind of.”
    “Well, too fuckin’ bad.” That made him really laugh.
    Mom came in and she giggled along with him. But her eyes had that sad look I’ve seen so many times before.
    Sorry, honey, what can I do?
    I don’t protect her, either, so I guess we’re even.
    He punched my arm hard. “Motor Moran, little bro. Don’t fuckin’ use it up.” Tossing me the cereal box, he went to the fridge and got beer and salsa.
    “Got any chips, woman?”
    “Sure, cowboy.”
    “Then move your ass and fix me some dip.”
    “You got it, cowboy.”
    She calls all the losers she brings home “cowboy.”
    Moran thought it was all for him. “Back in the saddle, baby, we goin’ gallop!”
    Motor Moron. His real name is Buell Erville Moran, so you can see why he’d want a