Nowhere to Run Read Online Free PDF Page A

was her birth certificate and the note from her mother. She glanced at them, then at him, but he was only looking at her. “Just wanted to invite you over tonight,” he said apologetically. “Didn’t mean to freak you out.”
    “Oh.” She didn’t know what to say. She was working to get her pulse under control.
    Then his gaze swept over the photos and he focused on one where an angry-looking man was stalking toward the cameraman, his hand up as if he were about to rip the offending camera away. The same man was in several other photos with Liv’s mother, but he was always turning away, frowning, as if he didn’t want his picture taken.
    “Who’s that?” he asked.
    “I don’t know,” Liv said stiffly.
    “Looks really pissed. This an old photo?”
    The color had leached out of the print and the women’s permed hair and over-the-shoulder tops and black stretch pants, straight out of Flashdance , spoke volumes about the date of the picture. “Yeah.”
    “Huh.” He turned back to her. “So . . . Jo and me . . . we’re just havin’ some drinks and pizza. We don’t get goin’ till late. That work for you?”
    “Thanks, but I’ve already made some plans.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. She’d determined over the course of the morning that she was going to show her brother the contents of the package. Hague had his issues, but he was strangely insightful as well.
    He’d only been a baby when their mother died, but maybe there was something buried in his psyche that could offer some explanation. “Another time, maybe? I’ve gotta run. I’m on my lunch break.”
    “If you change your mind, just stop by,” he said.
    “I’ll do that.” And she hustled him out the door.
     
     
    The apartment where Liv’s brother, Hague, lived was on the third/top floor of an older, industrial building on the east side of the Willamette River that had been converted into loftlike units during the ’60s. Those lofts had subsequently grown tired and in need of maintenance over the intervening years, but the place still had a spectacular view toward Portland’s city center, its westside windows looking back over the river. Hague’s unit was in the northwest corner and would have commanded an amazing slice of Portland skyline had he ever opened his blinds.
    Liv parked her blue Accord a block and a half from Hague’s building, the closest spot she could find. She hurried toward his apartment, the package tucked beneath her coat, feeling unseen eyes following her, though there were probably none. It was more likely her own paranoia, always on the prowl. She usually could hold it at bay, but there were times when it simply took over and she was powerless to do anything but feel its paralyzing grip.
    She wished fervently, like she always did, that she could change the past, but it was impossible. She’d lost her mother and huge parts of her life—days, weeks, months, years—and there was no getting them back. She could still remember the policeman’s probing questions after she’d woken from her trauma-induced coma. She was in a hospital with its bad smells and gray walls.

    “Did you see anything when you were in the kitchen?” he’d demanded. She didn’t know he was a policeman at first. He didn’t have the clothes of a policeman.
    “I saw Mama.” She forced the words out. Her lips quivered uncontrollably.
    “Anything else? Something?” He threw an impatient look toward the woman who’d come with him. A social worker of some kind, she knew now, but she hadn’t understood at the time.
    Livvie’s quivering lips were replaced by out-and-out sobs.
    “Useless,” he muttered.
    “She’s just a child,” the woman responded tautly.
    He turned back to Livvie. “The back door was open. Did you notice that?”
    She nodded jerkily.
    “Did you walk outside? Look outside?”
    “NOOOOOOOO!”
    “Calm down,” he told her. “Was there anyone—anyone—around?”
    “H-Hague was in his bed,” she stuttered,