The Neighbors Read Online Free PDF Page A

of a dwindling bank account, forging his mother’s name on checks so the city wouldn’t turn off their water, electricity, gas. Julie had never worked—they had lived off Rick’s salary. When his dad disappeared, the government checks started coming in. Drew would deposit them into an ATM before school each week, and would stop by the same machine after school to pull cash out. He had made the mistake of walking into the bank only once; the girl behind the counter had smirked at the kid trying to cash his mother’s welfare check. The teller nearly refused to give it back to him, insisting that what he was doing was illegal, finally relenting when Andrew burst into a fit of panicked tears.
    Somewhere in the middle of Andrew’s fourteenth year, Julie stopped cooking. Suddenly, with the bills and the groceries and nearly constant takeout, welfare wasn’t enough—and she wasn’t helping the situation any, drinking through whatever was left of weekly checks. Random men would stop by the house each week, toting bags full of bargain-basement alcohol. One week, when there was nothing left in their cash reserve, Andrew couldn’t pay the guy who showed up on their doorstep. Rather than lettinghim leave, Julie pulled him inside and led him upstairs. Drew sat on the couch with his hands over his ears, his face hidden against his knees. He started saving for his mother’s booze after that, always careful to have enough cash so it would never happen again.
    By the time Andrew graduated high school, he gave up any future plans and got himself a job. But the bills kept coming, kept growing. Julie kept drinking.
    Everyone felt bad for poor Julie Morrison, but from where Drew was standing, he was the one who deserved Creekside’s compassion. Between the job and the bills and finding his mom passed out drunk on the couch, he started to wonder just how fair life was.
    And then he found out.

CHAPTER THREE
    T he next morning, Harlow Ward squinted past coils of steam as the new boy’s pickup rolled down the street. Mickey’s Pontiac was parked in the driveway—the kind of car the devil would drive if he walked the earth and lived in the heartland. She supposed that was appropriate; after all, Mickey Fitch was no saint.
    She drained her cup of coffee, ran her thumb along the rim to remove the blotch of red lipstick, and crossed the dining room, her heels silent on the carpet. Dragging her fingers along the tabletop, she paused to admire her reflection in its polished surface, smiling at the woman who gazed back at her from below. Entering the kitchen with the distinctive click of high heels, she placed the still warm mug in the sink and gazed out the window onto a picturesque backyard. The hydrangeas were in full bloom, and the wooden trellis that clung to the side of the house was already heavy with rosebuds.
    She leaned into her reflection in the glass, pursed her painted lips, and fluffed the easy curls that framed her face. She had an errand to run.
    “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she announced, straightening her pencil skirt with one hand as she balanced a plate of cookies in the other. She crossed the living room—the carpet so white, it was a wonder anyone had set foot on it at all. “I’m going next door.”
    “Should I go with you?” Red asked, but she offered him a knowing smile and approached his recliner in response. She stopped beside him, her fingers tracing a path from his ear to beneath his chin.
    “Oh, Red,” she said, “what in heaven’s for? To help me take care of business?” She chuckled, then stepped out of the house.

    Andrew never had a taste for thrift stores. They reminded him of just how bad off he and his mom were. But starting a new life meant new stuff, and he had no money for that any other way.
    The place he’d found a mile from Mickey’s place was a rundown secondhand junk shop that smelled of mothballs and unwashed clothes. There were two people working there, both sweet elderly