Predator and Prey Prowlers 3 Read Online Free PDF Page B

T-shirts and two pairs of denim shorts he had discarded. Jack ran a hand through his unruly hair and then reached up into his closet for a gray Boston Red Sox shirt he had only worn a couple of times. He wasn’t a big sports fan, so he always felt like a poseur when he wore it, but he figured it was more interesting than a plain Gap T-shirt and slightly more subdued than the one with the big Batman logo on the front.
    Plus the clock was ticking.
    From a chair in the corner of the room, he picked up the blue jeans he had tossed there moments before and put them on. Belt, wallet, car keys, then socks and sneakers. As he sat on the bed, lacing up his sneakers, he glanced up again at the picture of his mother, Bridget. She had died when Jack was nine years old, and he wondered if that was why just looking at the photo could make him feel like a child.
    He bounced up off the bed and paused briefly in front of the bureau to gently touch the corner of the frame. Though he had few strong memories of his mother, he clearly recalled her standing in his bedroom doorway so many times, trying to get him to hurry and decide what to wear to school that day. More often than not, she had had to decide for him.
    It was a rare day off for Jack. Along with his older sister Courtney, he owned and managed Bridget’s Irish Rose Pub, their inheritance from their mother. When he was working, the only thing he had to decide was what color his shirt was going to be, for every day he wore one embroidered with Bridget’s logo on the breast.
    That was simpler, and Jack liked things simple.
    At the door, he paused and glanced around the room, feeling as though he had forgotten something. His gaze settled on his nightstand, and he strode quickly back to snatch up the book that lay there, Journal of the Gun Years, a western by Richard Matheson. One last time he patted his pockets to confirm the presence of his wallet and keys, then he strode out of the room.
    The Dwyer siblings owned the whole building, and their apartment above the pub consisted of two bedrooms, a kitchen, a bathroom, and a living room that doubled as a guest room. Lately the “guest room” had become a semi-permanent third bedroom for Molly Hatcher, a friend of the family, though her relationship to Jack and Courtney was far more complicated than that.
    Jack poked his head into what had become Molly’s room, but she wasn’t there.
    “Mol?” he said, glancing about the hallway.
    “In here.”
    Her voice had come from Courtney’s room. Curious, Jack went across the hall and stood in the open door. Courtney lived a pretty Spartan life, and what she had she kept neat. A bed, a desk and chair, a computer, a bureau. Yet while once her room had looked so empty as to make one wonder if anyone actually lived there, in the past month it had acquired a new sort of clutter in the form of newspaper clippings and internet articles that were pinned on the walls all about the room.
    Molly stood beside Courtney’s desk and stared at one of the articles. She wore cutoffs that drew attention to her long legs and a light cotton shirt unbuttoned over the green tankini top she wore. Her usually unruly red hair was tied back in a ponytail and she held her hands on her hips as though what she read had made her angry.
    “Hey,” Jack said. “You ready?”
    When she turned, a hint of that anger and frustration remained on her face. Then Molly saw him, and smiled happily.
    “Are you sure jeans are the most comfortable beach wear?” she teased.
    He shrugged. “I look stupid in shorts.”
    “You’re going to look stupid in jeans. Tell me you at least own a bathing suit. I mean, I know you don’t get out much, but—”
    “I haven’t been to the beach in a year,” Jack confirmed. “But I do own a bathing suit, thank you very much. I’m wearing it under my jeans.”
    “Good,” she said. “Now all we need are beach towels and we can get out of here.”
    But they both hesitated a moment, the