In Stone Read Online Free

road-kill is how I pick it up. Pinching the handle and holding it at arm’s length, I drop it into an old baseball sock and dump it in my bag. The tight, tense knots in my shoulders slacken. I can’t wait to get the knife out of my house for good. I suppose I could dump it in a bin, bury it in the garden, but I want it gone. I don’t want next door’s bloodhound digging it up and dumping it on our doorstep next week. I want it wiped out. Incineration, Misty said. Total, inferno-induced annihilation. It’ll be easy to keep the existence of the knife a secret, to forget any of this ever even happened when it no longer exists. I trot back downstairs.
    Across the street the park is being surveyed by three men wearing high-vis vests, and carrying clipboards. A mix of horror and disgust stalks the faces of a small crowd as they mutter to each other about violation and vandals. The park is a mess. Angry splits tear up the concrete. If it’s not sunk, it’s jutting up in serrated shards. A lamp, that’s probably been there since before the invention of the wheel, is bowed. The stone around its base is crumbling and can no longer support it. This kind of damage could incite a lynch mob in a small town like Plumbridge.
    Perched on the Delaware Stateline, Plumbridge is the type of town that you can’t see on a map unless you have a powerful magnifying glass and twenty-twenty vision. It’s the type of town that throws community barbecues once a month, and enforces a voting system for every other tree, or lamppost, or goddamn bench that they’re planning to erect. My cheeks flush as the squeak of my garden gate attracts some unwanted stares. I suddenly feel like there’s a huge neon arrow above my head. I know it wasn’t technically my fault, but I know how the park ended up looking this way and to these people that makes me an accessory. I pull my hood up, tuck my chin into my chest, and start shuffling toward the bus stop.
    It takes twenty minutes for the bus to get to the city. The grey city with its big, grey buildings and constant flowing river of grey suits. I step off and inhale a lungful of air that tastes of coffee and frustration. The building I’m heading for is a monstrous, charcoal eyesore. Some modern architect has modeled the structure on the prow of a ship. It sticks so far out that it almost meets the road. There are a couple of cop cars parked out front. My stomach makes a not so pleasant squelching sound as I make my way over.
    The grey river of suits has seeped inside. I cling to a bright, whitewashed wall as people flow in and out of the foyer. I’m in serious danger of being carried away on the current. I manage to push my way past a million solid shoulders and slip off to the side, away from traffic. My jacket is suddenly stifling. Forget trying to bury my face in my hood, I can’t whip it off quick enough.
    How do you ask for directions to an amnesty collection? I know I’m wandering around in a disorientated stupor when I collide with an emaciated chest, draped in a denim jacket.
    “Watch it,” a shifty voice warns. The voice belongs to a frizzy-haired dude with small, dark eyes. The felon look. Behind him a door is closing. That’ll be where I’m heading. I mutter a brief apology and step inside.
    It’s an intimate room. There’s a table at the head, and behind it are two male officers. There’s a line. I wasn’t expecting that. People seem to be signing a sheet of paper. Shoulders are hunched; heads are dipped. It sort of looks like a regional take on The X-factor, all nerves and anxiety, only there’s less singing and more offensive weapons. I’ve never seen a gun in real life before, and I see three right now. My pulse trips as the alien chunks of metal are passed across the tabletops.
    “Excuse me, can I help you with something?” a mousey voice asks from over my shoulder. The voice belongs to a petite blonde woman, cradling a box full of food vouchers. She’s all wide eyed and