The Mentor Read Online Free PDF Page A

enter. “But whoever he let in aimed a pistol at him, shooting him first in the throat so that he couldn’t cry out for help, then in the groin. The victim falls on the floor and quickly dies from loss of blood. The killer may have stayed here to watch him die.” The unfocused figure Eric had in his mind was now standing right alongside him. “Then he took the keys, closed the door carefully, and took off.”
    “It was personal,” murmured Miriam, putting her hands on her hips. She curled her lips and blew a strand of hair away from one side of her face.
    “We’ll do our best here,” Eric said as his eyes focused on the crime scene again. “But I need you to dig into this guy’s life, because I’m certain we’ll find whoever’s responsible for his death in there somewhere.”

From Mina’s Blog
    It’s funny how, when you’re little, people seem bigger than they really are. To my eyes, as I was looking at his shoes from underneath the bed, that man seemed like a giant. But when I found myself facing him twenty years later, I realized just how short he really was.
    As soon as he opened the door, the first thing that caught his attention was my neckline. Maybe because it was the closest thing to his eye level. I had unbuttoned my shirt precisely because I knew it would make things easier. Only after that did he raise his eyes to look me in the face.
    I knew at once, from the way his face relaxed, how happy my presence made him. A young, beautiful girl at his door. I was undoubtedly a pleasant surprise.
    I introduced myself, and just as I’d imagined, he didn’t recognize my name. In fact, he let me in immediately so that we wouldn’t have to talk standing there in the doorway. It was even easier than I’d thought it would be. I’d made up a credible story in order to justify my visit, but I didn’t get a chance to use it. Maybe I’ll get a chance later.
    He told me to make myself at home and asked if I wanted some tea. He went to make a pot right away. I got the sense he didn’t get a lot of visitors, because he seemed to want to do everything he could to keep me there as long as possible, just to have someone to talk to.
    He started talking about the weather—one of those pointless conversations about how this summer was looking rainier than usual, and how melancholy that made him feel.
    “Being British and hating the rain sounds like a singular punishment, don’t you think?” he asked, laughing at his own joke. I laughed too. What a loveable little man.
    Then he started going on about the different varieties of tea he was preparing, and how when he was younger he paid less attention to those details, how he’d been too absorbed by his frenetic life. He really liked it when I told him I’d heard of the various teas.
    When we finally sat down at the table, facing one another, he looked at me closely for the first time. “Excuse me for asking, miss, but have we met before? I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere.”
    He’d never seen me before, but I know that I look a lot like my mother. When he killed her, she’d only been a few years older than I am right now.
    “Not exactly,” I said. “But you’ve had the pleasure of meeting my parents and my brother, even if only for a few hours.”
    The man squinted a little, as if he were trying to remember. I could see he was struggling with his memory. “I’m sorry, miss,” he said, his mouth curling into a little frown, almost as if he was embarrassed. “I’m getting old now, and my memory isn’t quite what it used to be. I had a few problems with drugs and alcohol when I was younger, and I have to admit that a lot of my memories from those years have turned hazy. Give me a little hint. When did I meet your family?”
    I had set the package I brought with me in my lap. He couldn’t see me slip my hand inside it and take its contents out beneath the table. “Twenty years ago,” I said. “I was just seven. You didn’t see me, but I saw you