Palindrome Read Online Free

get it off their chest, and sometimes you gotta beat the piñata to get the candy. Every person holds their knowledge behind a combination lock, and in eight years of this shit, I have yet to meet a combo that doesn’t consist of some mix of fear, trust and greed.
    T HE DOWNSTAIRS BUZZER goes off before I can get my place anywhere close to clean. The kitchen is strewn with evidence of last night’s culinary fiasco—­a “Mexican casserole” I whipped up after paying the babysitter, which Sadie correctly diagnosed as nothing but salsa, canned beans and cheddar poured over corn tortillas and microwaved.
    â€œIt’s so bad that you’re not even eating it!” the little empress said, noting my untouched plate. I just shrugged, didn’t explain that the smell of trash-­soaked flesh was still in my nose, on my jacket and gloves.
    I buzz in my prospective client, then race to my room, rip off an ancient Rolling Stones T-­shirt and slap on a wrinkled blue button-­down. In the living room, Sadie is on the couch, swimming in one of my old wifebeaters, reading a library book and drinking instant hot cocoa. I should probably be more concerned about her sugar intake.
    â€œSadie, could you read in your room? I’m sorry, but I’m gonna have a meeting in the kitchen.”
    â€œOkay,” she says, popping up. “How long? Are you working tonight?”
    â€œI don’t think so,” I say, straightening my collar. “No open cases. We’ll watch a movie or something, alright? Your pick.”
    â€œOkay,” she says, ducking into her room: a section of the living room I paid someone to wall off a few years ago. She’s got enough room for a twin mattress and a dresser, that’s about it, but she probably won’t mind for a ­couple more years at least.
    A firm knock on the door. My guest scaled those steps pretty damn fast. I quickly assess the apartment as a prospective client might: the mess in the kitchen, clothes coating the carpeted living room floor, Sadie’s schoolwork all over the dinner table. If she wants unprofessional, she’s come to the right place.
    I begin my apology before the door is even open.
    â€œI’m sorry about the mess. Fridays are cleaning day, I swear we have a system—­”
    My sheepish grin freezes as I pull the door back to reveal a jarringly beautiful woman. I’m rendered momentarily speechless as I drink her in. Just south of six feet—­about two inches taller than me. Auburn hair trimmed to a length that only truly beautiful women can pull off. Wide green eyes, flawless, sharp cheeks. A body with the gentle hills and valleys of a rolling Scottish countryside, evident beneath a tight black turtleneck. She’s wearing black leather gloves and red silk pants that hug a breathtaking pair of hips. Her rigid expression reveals nothing more than the fact that she’s likely impervious to stupid flirtation, so don’t even try, hotshot.
    â€œFrank Lamb?” she says, her low voice immediately recognizable as the one I heard on the phone.
    â€œThat’s what it says on the buzzer.” Jesus, Frank. Stupid, stupid. “Please come in. You don’t have a coat?”
    She ignores the question. I beckon her to the dinner table and bid her to sit down in the most comfortable chair I own: a plush art deco number that Sadie and I found on 5th Street. She sits stiffly upright as I sweep Sadie’s math homework to the side. There’s something almost robotic about this woman. If she notices the mess, she’s doing a great job of hiding it.
    â€œHi.” Sadie has come out of her room to size up our visitor.
    â€œSadie.” I turn and force some oomph into my voice. “I asked you to stay in your room and read until we’re done.”
    â€œIt’s okay, she doesn’t mind, right?” Sadie beams a grin at our guest, the one that usually charms any woman