Scammed Read Online Free PDF

him say that about anyone. He was going to . . .” She broke off, gazing at the painting. Her grip shifted to his hand, which she held in a tight grip. “Greggie?”
    â€œMum?”
    â€œIf it were up to you—would you let Lucy keep using the studio?”
    He felt the neck-prickling again. “What do you mean, ‘up to me’? That’s for you to say.”
    â€œOf course. Never mind.” She leaned up and kissed him, administering a quick, fierce hug. “You’re a good son, Greggie. I’m sorry Daddy was always so busy. That he wasn’t—nicer to you. Now, because of—what happened—he’ll never get a chance to . . .”
    The words drifted into silence. Greg waited, but a conclusion never came. From Lucy’s painting, his mother’s eyes moved outward, scanning the whole studio. Afterwards, she took a deep breath and stepped back. “Thank you, dear.”
    â€œWhat for?”
    â€œBeing here. Being you. Now, you really should get some rest. I know that’s what I’m going to do. Good night.” She slipped out the door, a wraith drifting into the dark.
    Greg stood for a long time, contemplating his father’s handiwork: shining beauty created by a man who had rarely spoken a civil word. Then he roused himself and went back into the house. The place felt peaceful at last, the sadness muted, the strange tableau that had confronted him on his arrival now almost like a dream. Whatever it had been about, he was too exhausted to care.
    At the end of a corridor leading off the kitchen, Greg could see light under his mother’s door, and he decided to wait until it went out before going to bed. Wandering aimlessly, he remembered where his father’s whisky stash had always been kept. He checked and, sure enough, in a cupboard over the sink were some bottles of Glenfiddich. Single-malt Scotch was not usually his drink, but now it seemed like a very good idea. He found a glass, poured a shot and downed it. The strong liquor burned, but then he was rewarded with a pleasant buzz, the best feeling he’d had for a long time. He poured another shot, drinking it more slowly as he moved out of the kitchen, circling through the rest of the house, idly examining familiar objects, the whisky doing its slow, blessed work until the glass was empty and he was back in the kitchen again.
    By then half an hour had passed, and he saw that the light under his mother’s door was still on. Either she couldn’t sleep or she’d passed out. Suspecting the latter, he decided to slip in and kill the light, so it wouldn’t wake her prematurely. Only when he reached the bedroom door did he realize that it was ajar. Slowly he pushed it open, to discover the room flooded with light, the big bed unmade and quite empty.
    As was the room itself.
    On the far side, French doors led onto a patio, overlooking a broad stretch of lawn that ran down to the river. One of these was open, drapes billowing fitfully in the night breeze.
    Greg stood quite still, while his heart, which the whisky had soothed, began to pick up speed again. He started to call out, then stopped, knowing this to be useless. Instead, he strode across the room, thrust aside the curtains and peered out. The patio was also deserted. Light from the house streaked across the lawn, a slash of yellow reaching almost to the river.
    Without thought or decision, he was racing, across the patio and the lawn, his shadow preceding him like a monster down the slick corridor of light. At the end of this, beside the softly whispering water, he found it: a small pile of clothing, neatly folded—and on the top, his mother’s old blue sweater.

FIVE
    G reg drove north on the Trans-Canada Highway, turning off near the small town of Ladysmith onto Cedar Road. His destination was five kilometres along this road and was impossible to miss, so he’d been told. He drove for a long time amidst