Animosity Read Online Free

Gentlemen,” the next minute he’s sprawled out in his front yard with a broken neck, an unfortunate new centerpiece to his wife’s prized nativity scene.
    “Hi, Mona!” I said, scratching Norman behind his ears as the old woman waddled toward us. “I’m doing well. How about yourself?”
    “Oh, I’m just wonderful.” Mona’s hands went to her hips, and she made exaggerated kissing noises at my dog. “And hello to you too, Mr. Normy-Norman!”
    Norman barked a friendly greeting. His tail transformed into a furious, wheat-colored blur.
    Mona grinned so widely I was surprised she didn’t smudge some of that gaudy pink lipstick on her ears. “He’s such a good dog.”
    She looked down at her cat. Miss Pretty tried to hide behind the garbage can, but her long black tail gave her away. It swished back and forth like an angry snake ready to strike at us if we dared step upon the Purfield property. “Don’t be shy, Miss Pretty. Say hello, now.”
    Miss Pretty peeked out at us, meowed up at her mistress, but dismissed Norman and I with a glance that insinuated we were two of the most revolting creatures she ever had the misfortune of knowing. Norman barked a hello Miss Pretty’s way nonetheless. At least, I think he did. For all I know, he called her a stuck-up twat in animal-speak.
    “Writing any new books lately, Andy?” Mona asked me.
    “Always,” I said.
    “Still that spooky-ooky stuff, I’m sure?”
    I shrugged. “You know me. Guilty as charged.”
    “I think that’s just wonderful,” she said. “I mean, I’ll be honest. I’m no fan of that Stephen King, blood-and-guts stuff. I’d be afraid it would give me nightmares, you know? But I have always thought creative people were so incredibly fascinating. Myself, I can barely write a letter.”
    I chuckled.
    “Anywhooo,” the old woman said then, in a singsong tone, “we’ll talk again soon, Andy. I’m off to watch Dr. Phil. I never miss his show!”
    “Take care of yourself, Mona,” I said.
    Norman barked once, as if he also wished Mona nothing but the best, and Miss Pretty darted for the house.
    “Now, Miss Pretty,” I heard the old woman scold the cat as they headed back inside, “You know Norman wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
    We continued down the block. I whistled as I walked. Before long I felt droplets of sweat beading upon my brow. I wiped them away with the back of one hand.
    “Whew, Norman,” I said. “It’s gonna be a hot one today.”
    It wasn’t until we came within a hundred feet or so from the end of the street, where Poinsettia Lane merged into Brookshire Boulevard, the highway leading into town, when my dog began to act… well, not like himself at all .
    The retriever stopped in his tracks. His ears perked up. He sniffed the air, and a menacing growl rumbled deep in his throat like the threat of a storm on the horizon.
    The hair on my arms and the nape of my neck stood up.
    “Norman?” I said. “What’s the matter, boy?”
    Up ahead, to our left, sat the construction site of a new home at 229 Poinsettia Lane. There wasn’t much to it yet save for a plot of thick red dirt, a concrete foundation, and the partial frame of what would soon be a fancy split-level similar to Doc McFarland’s place across the street. I’d heard a family with the same last name as a recent President had purchased the property (the Clintons? the Bushes? I was pretty sure it hadn’t been the Reagans), but for the life of me I couldn’t remember which one. A high wooden fence surrounded the site. To the left of the rutted driveway, which served as the construction crew’s entrance, a large sign with fancy lavender script proclaimed COMING SOON: ANOTHER BEAUTIFUL SUNN-FLOUER HOME.
    Norman usually ignored the lot any time we passed it, even when it grew busy with dusty orange Brannon Bros. Construction trucks constantly coming and going, with sweaty men in hard hats hammering and sawing and pouring cement into the evening hours. That morning,