Wounded Animals (Whistleblower Series Book 1) Read Online Free PDF

much to quell the anxiety coursing through my veins. My flight left in an hour, and then I would be home in my beloved Colorado, away from overbearing Wyatt and creepy Darren and all of Texas.
    When the shuttle pulled up, a somber man in a uniform stepped out and looked me in the eyes. His lower lids were drooping like a basset hound’s, and he frowned.
    “Good afternoon. Take your bag, sir?”
    I thrust it toward him. “Yes, please.”
    Get me out of here. Get me out of here and don’t make me come back.
     
    ***
     
    The flight was the bumpiest I’d ever experienced in my life, as if the plane were a shaken-up bottle of soda, unleashed across the middle states of America. I noticed they didn’t have puke bags on airplanes anymore. Maybe they didn’t think they were necessary, or maybe they figured the sight of them was a bad PR message. I could have talked to a flight attendant about it, but I didn’t care enough to actually put forth the effort to ask the question.
    I tried to read a book on the plane, but I kept worrying about Grace. Even though I was traveling so much the last few months, going this long without checking in was unheard of. I was sure there was a good explanation for it, but I kept drawing a blank.
    When we touched down, I put away my worn Michael Chricton paperback and leaned forward in the seat, hoping I might pass a few slow people deboarding and get home that much quicker.
    After the flight, I rushed through the airport and into the massive Denver International parking lot to find my car.
    Cold out, and the skies looked ready to unleash snow at any moment. When the clouds grew lighter, that meant a pouring was imminent. This winter had already given us more snow than usual.
    I raced out of the parking lot, not bothering to text Grace or call her. I was going to go home, she would be there, and everything would make sense. It had to. Maybe she could tell me why the hell she’d decided to take up reading for no good reason.
    When I pulled into my neighborhood, I felt that sense of relief that comes from the familiar.
    “Hello, house that probably makes and sells meth,” I said as I drove past the shabby house at the end of the block. “Hello, guy who collects Volkswagens. Hello, woman with the German Shepherd that barks at me like I’m trying to break in and steal something. Hello, guy who obsessively waters his lawn while wearing bike shorts.” My neighborhood had a lot of character. Plus meth, possibly.
    We lived on a pseudo-cul de sac halfway down the street. When I reached it, I saw my wife’s car in the driveway, and my neighbor Alan out front of his house, shoveling snow. Decked out in a puffy down Broncos jacket and sweatpants, he looked like an orange and blue marshmallow.
    He lifted a pair of can headphones from his ears and raised a hand as I parked along the curved street. He threw a smile at me, but I scowled at him as I got out of my car.
    “Why didn’t you call me?” I said, pointing at my wife’s Subaru.
    His face fell. “Oh, man, I totally blanked on that. My mistake, Candle. I even put a reminder on my phone, then I forgot to look at it.”
    Alan smoked a lot of weed, that was for sure. He was handy with a power saw, but not the kind of person to count on when you needed something important. I should have known better.
    Since I’d been traveling so much and Grace usually was home alone, I’d hired a service to come by and shovel the snow from our driveway and off our cars the morning after every snowstorm. Her car was clean of snow, so I didn’t know if it had been driven since the last dumping.
    “Hey, if Grace is home,” Alan said, “can you ask her to come over and check on my worms? I’ve got some kind of fruit fly infestation, and I’m worried they’re not going to make it.”
    “Sure, no problem,” I said, but their compost bin worm project was not something I’d push up too high on my priority list.
    I opened the front door, and an odd smell greeted