Something Wicked Read Online Free PDF Page B

the scene below me, just in case. Maybe the reporter fell on his own, not because I suddenly had magical powers or anything, but…

    It was either this, shout a warning or jump on top of the guy. Those last two choices could work against Mr. Lane’s bad heart. But I wasn’t letting the old man get attacked.

    Luckily, I didn’t have to make that choice. That same erratic cloud of zigzagging birds shot around the house, and Mr. Lane backed up. “Damned bats,” he muttered, turning around and heading toward his front yard.

    Bats? Ugh!

    A moment or two later, his door slammed shut.

    The big guy’s shoulders sank with relief, and I hated him. I hated him for breaking into my house. I hated him for feeding this morbid need people had to be entertained by my sister’s murder. I hated that people like him were alive, and she was dead.

    “You’re lucky,” I said grimly, pillowing my chin on my cast hand. “Mr. Lane used to work as a prison guard.”

    The reporter spun and stared up at me, mouth open.

    “That, and I didn’t break my damned neck,” he said, his voice surprisingly deep. Deep and…familiar. “And you aren’t armed.”

    I didn’t bother to show him the athame. Instead I wondered, how did I know that voice? And why else did I hate it?

    “You’re Kate Trillo, right?” he demanded, extra proof of his profession. I’d avoided the press. Only people who paid close attention would recognize me as the witness—though it probably helped that he could connect me to my house. He blew on his hands, then said, “Ms. Trillo, are you willing to help the country learn the truth about your sister’s death? I’ll pay you five hundred dollars.”

    Recognition clicked. “You’re that radio guy, Al…?”

    “Al Barker,” he agreed, clearly proud that I’d heard of him. “The Superrational Show. Okay, a thousand dollars.”

    “Go to hell.” I sat up so that I could pound on the roof. I was too damned cold, numb cold, to linger. Especially if there were bats. “I’m having Mr. Lane call the cops.”

    “You can do that,” Barker agreed. “But then you wouldn’t hear my theory as to why one of the Fishers killed your sister.”

    One of the Fishers? Was there still any question of who had murdered Diana?

    Now I hated him even more, for hooking me.

    He sensed his advantage. “Talk to me,” he urged. “Off the record, if you must. There are some things you need to know about all this. You’re being played by the system.”

    The system hadn’t killed Diana. Victor Fisher had. “You have no reason to help me.”

    “Sure I do. That’s what my show’s about—the truth. Fighting the good fight.”

    I made a rude noise.

    “Okay then. I’m hoping that once you trust me more, you might give me some kind of scoop. I don’t even need to attribute it to you. I could say, ‘an anonymous source close to the family.’”

    He must have read my expression even in the shadows, because he added, “Or not.”

    I sat there shivering and wondered again, one of the Fishers?

    “Come on, Ms. Trillo. Don’t you owe it to your sister to learn the truth? What have you got to lose?”

    He was right on that account, but I still hated him. Deeply. “Stop playing me.”

    “You choose the time,” tempted Al Barker. “You choose the place.” It sounded like a dare, all the same. I hated dares. But…

    “Midnight,” I decided, to a background of distant, howling dogs. That would give me time to clean up. Besides…

    Midnight was the witching hour.

     

    “I was under the impression,” I said by way of greeting, “that you and Ben Fisher were friends.”

    I’d actually agreed to meet with Al—off the record—at a 24-hour diner a few miles from my neighborhood. It didn’t offer great decor, mostly framed travel posters of Italian sights with fake grapevines draped across their tops. But Joe, the guy who ran the diner, was an old friend of the family.

    I felt safe in his diner. Even