Untraceable Read Online Free PDF

he’s carrying a small blue cooler. I look up into MoonPie-brown eyes.
    He frowns. “Why are you following me?”
    This time, I detect a slight accent that straddles the fine line between English and Australian. I can’t tell for sure because, to be honest, they both sound the same to me.
    Never show your fear. I assume that’s the case any time you come across something threatening, whether it’s a big animal or a hot guy. After straightening my posture, I make sure to project my voice, hoping to mask any nerves as well as my thick Southern accent. “Saw you in the woods. I was curious. No one comes out here.”
    “You do.”
    I center my weight over my feet, just in case this dude comes at me. “That’s different.”
    He shrugs. “Not to me.”
    This chitchat is not productive, so I change the subject to something more interesting to me. “You lost?”
    “You a tour guide?”
    “Obviously not.”
    “Right. First off, I wouldn’t be lost. Second, if I was,” he holds up his wristwatch, “I have this handy little gadget called a … compass.”
    I cross my arms and bite back at his sarcastic remark. “Then I guess you know where you can go.”
    One side of his mouth curves. Somewhat crooked but stark white teeth sneak-a-peek through his fullish lips. “You’re a bit cheeky.”
    Whatever that means. “Thanks. Now why did you say you were here?”
    “I didn’t.” He gives me an indignant look then crosses his arms in defiance.
    “You seen anyone else out here?”
    His eyes dart around as if he’s watching a mosquito. “No.”
    “So you’re out here alone?”
    “If you must know, I was fishing.”
    I narrow my eyes to slits and look him over. “You fish?”
    “Abso-bloody-lutely.” He points to a short, stubby rod leaning against a nearby oak.
    I frown. A bait fisherman. Flyfishing is about more than just fishing, not to mention it takes way more skill. Bait chunkers splash through the water, ruining peaceful runs with loud yelps and incessant booze breaks. How can slapping a fat, sedated worm on a hook be called fishing ? I stare at his fishing rod, which is actually too short for his height. This guy is invading my turf, stealing my fish. “Haven’t you ever heard that size matters?”
    The guy’s eyes darken slightly, but I swear I see a sparkle. “No need to be rude. I’ll leave you to your business. This time, don’t follow me.”
    I notice how his words go up at the end of every sentence like every statement is a question. “I’m rude, but that’s polite?”
    He rubs the scruff on his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “Hmmm. Let me try again. Please don’t follow me. Much better I hope.” Before I can claim the last word, he pivots on one foot and trudges off into the trees.
    I spy on the mystery guy until he fades into the green abyss, wondering what he’s really doing out here. I make a conscious decision to trek back to my bike off the main trail. That way, if this dude tries to track me, I’ll hear him first. Not that I’m worried. Then again, Dad and I have come across some whacky characters out here so one can never be too careful.
    As I hike toward Luci, I can’t help but think more about the stranger.
    Questions cloud my head like the early morning mist over Bear Creek. Who is this guy? Where is he from? And, out of all the places to fish, why is he hanging around my fishing spot?
    In fact, why is he out here at all?
     
     

Survival Skill #6
     
     

Never let an opponent see any sign of weakness or fear.
     

     
    As soon as I wake up the next morning, I spread out my notes, hoping to spot something I haven’t seen before. Detect something I’ve missed.
    “Grace!” my mother shrieks from downstairs.
    I ignore her and scramble to gather the papers sprawled across my bed. After shoving everything into my bag, I jump over to my desk and quickly begin tying flies to replenish my fishing stock. Mom’ll freak out if she sees me obsessing over Dad’s case.
    What