Looks to Die For Read Online Free

floor writhed like a half-dissected frog pinned to the table for a seventh-grade biology class.
    “Get him to the back,” Reese yelled, and with stunning viciousness, the cops yanked their victim out the opposite door, in the very direction I’d been staring since I arrived.
    “No!” I shrieked, running after them. “My husband’s back there!”
    The door slammed with a convincing thud, locking in the bloodied, the victimized, and the criminal. I crashed against the handle with wild fury, but a lock had snapped into place, and nothing budged. I kicked at the door with the piercing high heel of my left mule, pounding until something seemed to give, but it was the heel, which I felt break away from the sole, dangling like a half-amputated limb.
    Reese. Maybe he had a human side. Tears streaming down my cheeks, I twisted around to face him. I would have thrown myself at his feet if I thought it would help — but I’d just seen how much good that did. “Officer, I need you to help me. Whatever you can do, just get my husband out of there. Please, I beg you.” My terrified plea ricocheted around the squad room with such high-pitched anguish that Reese actually stopped in his tracks and turned slowly to look at me. He blinked a few times, as if trying to figure out who I could be.
    “I can’t release your husband,” he said finally. “He’s in jail. A very serious crime, okay?”
    “No, it’s not okay! Please don’t lock him up all night!” Maybe the room turned humans into wild animals, because my bellows suddenly sounded identical to the cries of the creature who had just been dragged away. Reese didn’t bother answering me this time; he just disappeared out the door where he had first come. Despite my broken shoe, I charged after him, but the taco cop stood up with more speed than I would have thought possible and planted herself in front of me.
    “Sorry, lady. Nobody leaves this area.”
    “I’ve got to help my husband,” I said, my voice suddenly shaking.
    “Ya not gonna help him here.” An edge of sympathy had crept in under her Brooklyn accent. “Look, just get home. Come back first thing in the morning.”
    “Do you think Dan’s in a cell with…” I gestured vaguely, indicating the wild man who had just come in.
    “Nah. That was probably a drug charge. Your husband’s in on murder. Much bigger deal. Probably in seclusion.”
    My shoe chose that moment to give up completely, the torn heel collapsing and my ankle twisting as I sunk to the floor. My husband was more dangerous than a bloody, drug-crazed maniac. I got up and without another word half crawled, half stumbled to my car.
    Driving home, I wanted to think out the situation properly, preparing for constructive action, but instead I kept hearing a mocking voice scream in my head, Dan’s in jail! Dan’s in jail! Dan’s in jail! like some endlessly repeated child’s tape from the Brothers Grimm. My only images of jail came from TV shows and bad DVDs: I pictured a hostile cell mate, a smelly toilet, and a shaky, lice-infested cot. I tried not to think about the worst — Dan the doctor being beaten up by some nothing-left-to-lose killer, who’d turn his face into a bloody pulp and force needles into his arm.
    The highway was empty and I revved the motor, driving eighty most of the way home. Forget the treadmill — my personal best tonight was going to be set in the car. I half hoped I’d get stopped so I could tell my story to some other cop, but nobody came near me. Maybe all the cops in L.A. were busy arresting innocent people tonight.
    Back inside the house, I peeked in on Jimmy, but his bed was empty. I dashed down the hall to Ashley’s room — where my daughter was sound asleep, with Jimmy curled at the foot of her bed like some loyal golden retriever. I carried him gently back, grateful that he didn’t wake up. Making a final stop in Grant’s room, I found my oldest son also asleep, his long hair flung across the pillow, a