Hung Out to Die Read Online Free

putting off thinking about what I’d do after that.
    Originally, my boyfriend Owen Collins and I had planned to have a romantic Thanksgiving dinner-for-two at my apartment. (The turkey breast was still in the freezer.) Then, maybe, we’d go over the plans I’d been sketching for converting the two apartments into one loft. My success in renting the second apartment has always been spotty at best—the most recent renters had just moved out to a small home on Maple Street—and I thought I could afford to turn my apartment into something more homey. Something that might have space for all the books I keep buying.
    And then, as the candlelight flickered and we grew weary of looking at my plans, maybe we could . . .
    I shook my head and told myself to focus on folding little boy T’s and undies.
    Owen had gone the day before to Kansas City to spend the week with his twelve-year-old, Zachariah, who lived with Tori, his mom, Owen’s ex-wife. Because Owen had once served time for involuntary manslaughter, Tori had full custody of their son, and until a few months before, Owen had had no contact with Zachariah.
    Owen was, understandably, excited about finally getting to spend time with Zachariah. And I was truly excited for him. Even if it meant that, by necessity, he’d also be spending time around Tori.
    Dining on her turkey and dressing and pumpkin pie . . . no doubt in some cozy candle-lit eat-in kitchen of a white-picket-fenced suburban home. With a golden retriever named something like Old Pal snoozing in front of the glowing fireplace . . .
    Not that I was jealous. Owen and his ex-wife were truly over each other, he’d assured me numerous times. He just wanted to see his son, and he was spending the week at a nearby Quality Inn Motel.
    And of course I had no doubts that Owen, while enjoying time with his son, would long to also be with me, dining on turkey and pumpkin pie in the apartment over my laundromat. With a pothos ivy named Rocky dripping yellowing leaves from the windowsill . . .
    For just a second, I hoped Tori’s turkey was tepidly tasteless.
    My older friend and the county’s bookmobile librarian, Winnie Logan, had invited me for Thanksgiving dinner in years past, but her daughter in Chicago had just had her first child—and Winnie’s first grandchild—so Winnie and her husband would be in Chicago for the holiday.
    Sally always spent Thanksgiving with the Toadferns, and since I was “dead” to the family, I had no intention of haunting their holiday festivities.
    Cherry had plans with her family and Deputy Dean’s family.
    I had other friends—none so close as Winnie, Sally, and Cherry, of course—and even customers I could have dropped a hint with, and readily been invited to Thanksgiving.
    But, somehow, I didn’t want to become some other family’s sympathy guest . . . even though I knew no one else would see it that way.
    Maybe I would just read, after my visit to Stillwater. Have the turkey and review my renovation plans by myself.
    Or maybe I’d go up to Masonville and volunteer to serve at the city’s annual feast for homeless and low-income individuals and families.
    Yeah, I thought, starting to get excited, that could be a pretty neat way to spend the day . . .
    â€œWell, really, Josie, Thanksgiving day is meant to be spent with family,” Cherry said, interrupting my thoughts.
    â€œThat’s how I’m spending the morning.”
    â€œWell I know that Guy is family, but . . .”
    â€œWhat she’s getting at, Josie, is that you have a whole other side to your family,” Sally said. “You’ve kept the last name—”
    â€œHabit!” I snapped. Which was true. Plus Toadfern was my legal last name when my aunt and uncle adopted me, and since they never saw fit to change it, neither did I.
    â€œâ€”but you barely know the