Speaking in Bones Read Online Free PDF

deepening twilight, the magnolias and live oaks like giant sentinels guarding the lawn.
    I took the circle drive past Sharon Hall and the coach house to the smallest structure on the grounds. Two stories, five rooms and a bath. The annex, original purpose forever lost to history.
    Expecting to be home long before dark, I’d left no lights burning. Every window stared darkly opaque. Though I couldn’t see his furry white face, I knew that through one pane a very hungry cat tracked my approach.
    I gathered the sushi, got out, and crossed my patio to the back door. As I jiggled the proper key forward on the overburdened ring, I could hear cars starting up across the way at Myers Park Baptist Church. A dog barking. A siren wailing far off in the distance.
    “Hey, Bird.” I thumbed a switch and placed the bag on the counter. Birdie worked figure eights around my ankles. “Sorry, big guy. You must be starving.”
    Birdie sat and regarded me with disapproval. I think. Then, catching a whiff of raw tuna, he forgot his grievance and hopped onto the counter.
    I filled his bowl, certain he’d ignore the crunchy pellets and focus instead on cadging from me. Then I got a plate and a Diet Coke and settled at the table. Birdie jumped onto the chair beside mine.
    “So.” Placing a sliver of hamachi in front of him. “Tell me about your day.”
    Birdie scooped the offering with one delicately curled paw, sniffed, then downed it. No comment on his diurnal activities.
    “Mine did not go exactly as planned.”
    While eating California roll, I described my encounters with Lucky Strike and Recliner Man. Cats don’t care if you talk with your mouth full. A character trait I much admire.

    “Got a call from Allan Fink.” I shared my feelings on filing deadlines.
    Bird listened, eyes following my chopsticks as I dipped and downed two amago. I gave him an ebi and ate the rice. He did the paw thing and wolfed the shrimp in one gulp.
    Admission. Above all others, one issue was making me churlish. Andrew Ryan’s startling proposal.
    “What do you think? Should I marry the guy?”
    Bird looked at me but offered no input.
    “I agree. Later. You up for digging through boxes?”
    Same nonresponse.
    I climbed the stairs, took a quick shower, and changed into a tee and pajama pants. Then I headed for the attic at the end of the hall.
    Here’s my three-step filing system. Which would never be disclosed to Allan Fink. Got a receipt, canceled check, or document that might later be needed? Toss it in a box, date the box, shove the box into the attic at the end of the year.
    I found the carton quickly, between a stack of obsolete textbooks and two tennis rackets I would never restring. I hauled it to the dining room, slightly uneasy at its lack of poundage.
    Seated at the table, I lifted the lid. I needn’t have worried. The thing was crammed with more paper than a pulp mill generates in a decade. Inwardly groaning, I started unfolding, deciphering, and sorting into piles. Taxi. Hotel. Humane Society. Animals Asia. Trash.
    As my eyes struggled to make out faded credit card numbers and cash register print, my mind veered back to Lucky Strike. To the recording. The girl had seemed terrified, the men horrendously cruel. The voices rang in my head, sharp and jagged as broken glass.
    Had the girl on the audio really been Cora Teague? If not Teague, then who? Who had ended up below that Burke County overlook?
    I should have confiscated the recorder. Sure, I’d asked and Strike had refused. But I could have been more persuasive if I’d used my wits. Why hadn’t I?
    Why hadn’t Opal Ferris returned my call?

    Round and round. Guilt. Irritation. Agitation over the prospect of vows.
    After an hour, I’d made maybe a two-inch dent in the mountain of paper. And my headache was back with bells. Screw it.
    Shifting to the study, I booted my Mac and googled the term “websleuth.” I was astounded at the number of links that came up. Articles. Videos. Sites