Killing You Softly Read Online Free PDF Page B

something you’re not telling me,’ I insisted.
    ‘Back off and, while you’re about it, leave Alex out of it,’ he warned without breaking his stride.
    ‘Look, I understand – it’s all very well for you to want to protect your buddy . . .’
    This brought Jayden to a halt on the crest of the stone bridge that crossed the stream running parallel with Main Street. His breath emerged as clouds of steam in the damp, cold air.
    ‘You don’t understand the first sodding things Alyssa.’
    That was all I was going to get – a warning to back off and an angry rebuff through narrowed eyes.
    ‘Yeah, well, thanks for nothing,’ I muttered as I watched him go.
    Alex Driffield lives with his parents in a converted cottage in Upper Chartsey. I found this out by asking the first person to come out of St Michael’s and All Angels
    Church after morning service.
    It happened to be an old, bald, beer-gutted guy with a limp and a walking stick, who coughed as he came through the lych gate then leaned against the stone wall of the churchyard.
    ‘Up the hill at Millstones,’ he told me through a globule of phlegm. ‘I don’t think he’ll want to talk to you, though.’
    ‘Why not?’ I shot back.
    The old man looked me up and down. ‘Alex just lost his girlfriend – pretty little thing.’
    Call me thin-skinned, but I took this as a negative comment about my own appearance (not pretty and definitely not little) and I cleared my throat awkwardly.
    ‘No offence,’ Phlegm Man cackled with more perspicacity than I’d expected. ‘You’re nice-looking enough in your own way. But Alex won’t want to fill the
    vacancy – not any time soon.’
    ‘How would you know?’ I challenged. A combination of croaking and spitting hadn’t done anything to improve first impressions.
    ‘Because I’m his granddad,’ the old man said with a rheumy tear in his eye. ‘Our whole family is gutted, along with hers. Pretty girl, and clever with it. Vicar just
    asked us to pray for her – not that it’ll do any good now, of course.’
    If someone tells me I can’t do something, my stubborn streak comes out.
    It was the same when I was little. When Aunt Olivia said no to me joining the junior-school football team because it took me away from my studies, I ignored her. I’d stay after school
    and be busy scoring goals when officially I was in extra maths. Or there’d be a programme on TV she said I couldn’t watch – it was too gory, too trashy, too adult, whatever. So
    what did I do? I would secretly press RECORD and watch it the next day while she was at work. OK, it’s not big and it’s not clever, but I did it anyway.
    So when Jayden told me to back off and Alex’s granddad said Alex wouldn’t be interested in talking to me I just grew more determined. I got on my bike, cycled up the hill to
    Millstones Cottage and knocked on the door.
    ‘Alex isn’t in,’ his dad told me. Alex’s dad was a younger version of croaking, gobbing man. That is, he had hair and no limp, but the double chin and beer gut were
    developing and there were the same sags and wrinkles around his eyes.
    ‘Do you know where he is?’ I asked.
    Alex’s dad shrugged and closed the door.
    I knocked again. ‘I’m Alyssa Stephens,’ I reminded Mr Driffield.
    ‘I know who you are – you’re from St Jude’s. I saw your face splashed all over the front pages of the papers. You were involved in the Lily Earle business.’
    ‘Lily was my roommate.’
    ‘I know that too. You got yourself involved in the whole nasty mess instead of leaving it to the police. Too bloody clever by half.’
    The force behind what he said made me take a step back. I remembered how strict he was with Alex, how Alex didn’t raise his head above the parapet if his dad was on the warpath. Crouch
    down, tow the line, don’t speak until you’re spoken to – this was Neanderthal parenting with a vengeance. And I could read that now in Mr Driffield’s square stance, which
    blocked