The Ninth Step Read Online Free PDF

the description: 1978 Mercedes, 420 SEL. Dark blue. Body and interior in fair condition . He looked at the kid. “Sure is low mileage for a car this old.”
    “My dad bought it used from a guy whose mother owned it. He said she never drove it much. I know how that sounds, but hey, a Mercedes is supposed to be good for more than 300,000 miles, right?”
    “Yeah,” Cotton said, “I’ve heard that. You want twelve hundred. I’ll give you six. Cash. Right now.”
    The kid squeezed his eyes shut, groaning. “Oooh, god, cash makes me weak.” His eyes flew open. “Done,” he said.
    They shook on it and keeping the kid’s grip, Cotton said,  “Maybe we should see if it starts first.”
    “It’ll start, I swear.”
    Cotton let go of the kid’s hand.
    “So, we’re good? You’ve got the cash? You can take her now?”
    “If you want, yeah.”
    The kid’s sigh made it sound as if it was more relief than he could stand. Too much relief.
    Cotton looked at him from under his brows. “You swear it’s not hot.”
     “I swear. It’s just it’s been taking up space in my driveway for weeks and my neighborhood association is threatening to sue if I don’t get it out of there.” The kid shifted a weighted glance to the Laundromat window. “I don’t figure my old man’s coming back to pick it up anytime soon. I’ve gotta get rid of it, the quicker the better.”
    Must be kismet, Cotton thought. We’re both desperate.
    #
    It was a big car, a boat of a car, a long, low-slung, white-wall-tired pimpmobile. But it ran.
    Driving felt awkward. It had been long enough that Cotton was tentative. Nervous. For over a week, all he did was cover his route to and from work. On the plus side, as long as he was behind the wheel dealing with the traffic and the plethora of road signs and the endless construction, he didn’t see the bars so much, all the neon-sparked temptation.
    But there were still the sleepless nights when he lay awake staring at the ceiling, at the crack that was working its way from the corner of the kitchenette to just short of the foot of his bed, the interminable dark hours when he wondered what he was doing.
    What’s your plan? Anita had asked.
    Shit if I know, he answered her in his head.
    He went back to the library and used the computer again. Google search engine this time. It wasn’t hard to locate information about the Latimers and find their home address. Weston Latimer owned his own business, the way Cotton once had, an ad agency. The family lived on Cherryhill Drive in Dove Lake, Texas. No surprise there, Cotton thought. The upscale suburb was northwest of Houston, on the rural outskirts, near where he and Livie were to have been married. Lakeside if the weather cooperated, but it hadn’t. The air that morning had been foggy and slick with mist and he remembered being worried that it wouldn’t clear in time for the ceremony, that Livie would be disappointed. Initially Cotton blamed the weather for what happened. Stumbling around the accident site then, trying to get a grip, get a signal on his cell, call for help, do any damn thing, his mind had worked out what he’d tell the cops. “Weather was a factor,” he’d say. “Roads are slick as ice.”
    “Yeah, buddy, right, the weather made you do it. . . .” 
    Now Cotton half stood, ready to take off, but then he sat back down. Typed in the name of Livie’s website, Gardens by the Yard, and looked at her photograph. Her smile dove into his heart, opened a pain so harsh it took his breath. He wanted to see her, to hear the sound of her voice. He wanted to tell her. . . .
    He closed the window, googled Houston AA chapters and found a church nearby that held meetings every day and he made himself go, then, and for the next three days. Because he knew Anita would ask and he couldn’t bother her, continue to involve her, unless he could say he was making an effort. He bought a cheap cell phone so he could call from the privacy of his room and