Killer Read Online Free PDF

hands and spilled over her knuckles. Her nails were blunt and unpolished but minute black chips on some of them said acetone had been applied recently.
    Dust Bowl meets Goth?
    A woman unfettered by expectation.
    I let her stand there for a few moments because it’s a good way to see how people deal with uncertainty. She turned and glanced out a side window and exposed yet more tattoo: Chinese characters bisecting the other side of her neck. For all I knew they described a take-out order of Kung Pao chicken.
    She turned back. Our eyes met. I smiled. She said, “Great view.”
    “Thanks.”
    “I really
am
sorry to be late.”
    “It’s no problem, Ree.”
    Some people are repelled by easy usage of nicknames; any attempt at premature familiarity. Cherie Sykes relaxed and moved forward as if to shake my hand a second time, caught herself and dropped her arms and said, “Thank you so much for doing this, Dr. Delaware. I really
need
you.”
    She sat on my battered leather couch and resumed wringing her hands. Red string bracelet on one wrist, studded metal cuff on the other.
    I said, “This has to be tough.”
    “It’s hell,” she said. “Expensive hell. Even with Myron giving me a discount.”
    “Nice of him.”
    “I got him out of the phone book. He probably thought I was nuts, just calling him.” She shifted uncomfortably. “He’s young. I’ve never seen anyone in his office, and he uses this young chick—a kid—for a receptionist.”
    “You’re worried about his experience.”
    “No, no, he’s great, he really is—he listens. Like you can tell when someone gets it, you know?”
    Her look said she hoped I’d qualify.
    I said, “It’s nice to be understood.”
    She sank an inch lower. “It sucks. The whole judging thing. Way I’ve always seen it, people who are
into
judging others suck the most.”
    “Like your sister.”
    Strong nod. “She’s always been like that—looking down on me, this is just more of the same.” She mouthed a silent obscenity. “She has no life so she tries to eat mine like a breakfast burrito.”
    She stared at me. “Where did that come from? Breakfast burrito? I never do that—use those whatyacallit—metaphors.”
    “You feel like Connie’s trying to devour you.”
    “Yes! That’s exactly how I feel! You’re getting the picture, Dr. Delaware … cool name, is it Indian? I’ve got some Indian in me. Chippewa, or at least that was the story my mom told. You part Indian? You from the state—Delaware? That’s one place I’ve never been to, bet it’s pretty. What’s it like?”
    “Let’s focus on you, Ree.”
    Color left her face. Her bronze-colored makeup was too thick to allow a uniform fade but pale blotches broke out on her cheek and her chin and above one eye. “Sorry for being nosy.”
    “No problem, Ree. If we stay on track we can get this done as quickly as possible.”
    “Yeah, of course,” she said. “Quickly is good. I hope.”
    I started with a developmental history. She knew the basics of Rambla’s physical and behavioral growth, volunteered little in the way of pride or insight. I’ve met mothers who seemed more in touch, others who knew less.
    Her reports of the child’s sleep and appetite patterns were normal. So were Rambla’s milestones. That matched the brief report in the file by a pediatrician at a walk-in clinic in Silverlake. A single page using the kind of general language that suggested a fill-in-the-blanks template.
    I said, “Is Dr. Keeler her regular doctor?”
    More pallid spots. “Not exactly, we see whoever’s in that day. It’s no problem, all the docs there are good. And Rambla’s been totally healthy, she has all her shots, I don’t do that crazy stuff with no immunizations. No way, I keep her healthy and safe.”
    Reaching into her bag, she produced a photo. Probably snipped from one of those four-for-a-buck deals you get at carnival booths.
    Ree Sykes holding a good-sized, chubby, dark-haired toddler. Cute