Parallel Lies Read Online Free

close, though not yet into the kitchen.
    “Yeah?” the boy called in response.
    “Stir the cereal for me, would you? Turn it off first! Use a pot holder! And watch out for the bubbles. They’re hot! I’m going to get your sister up.”
    A second child!
    The boy crossed to the stove.
    Alvarez moved back to the ironing board. He set down his loot on the dryer and gently moved the ironing board out of his way. Would she remember how it had been sitting? If he could get out without setting off any alarms in her, he might buy himself more time—
freedom.
    He unlocked the window, the washer’s motor and churning water providing cover. One firm bang with an open palm jarred the window loose. The weather stripping, long strings of soft caulk, pulled from the jamb. He was in a full sweatnow—hands, armpits, brow, the back of his neck. He tossed his haul out into the snow, slipped his legs out, and reached to pull the ironing board back into place, dragging it.
    His mistake was attempting to stand the iron itself back up as he had found it. He stood it up fine, but in his final effort to get out, he once again nudged the ironing board. This time, he took no notice. As he ducked his head out the window, he heard the iron strike the floor.
    He pulled the window shut and scooped up his stolen possessions.

    The woman heard the noise. Sounded like something falling. With Samantha cradled in her arms and Nathan standing on a chair stirring his hot cereal, she stepped into the confined space. She thought it felt cold, but this laundry room never heated well in the morning. Northwest side of the house and all.
    The iron lay on the floor. She stared at it, puzzled. Then the washing machine shook, going off-center, as it was prone to do with sheets and towels, and the room vibrated so much she was surprised every shelf hadn’t fallen down along with the iron. Just another thing that needed fixing. Like most everything in this place.

CHAPTER 4
    His name was Peter Tyler, and he drove a beige, front-wheel-drive Ford convertible that smelled of spray can deodorant, courtesy of Avis. The rental agent could not understand his insisting on a convertible in the middle of winter. Tyler gripped the warm plastic steering wheel a little too tightly, thinking that if the snow didn’t let up, he would never make it to the rail yard on time. Not the best message to send back to Washington on the first day of a new job.
    He adjusted the mirror and briefly caught sight of his own dark eyes and knitted brow, his worry overriding what was normally his more lighthearted expression. He needed this job, both financially and emotionally, even if it was only freelance work. He knew that rebuilding his life would not be accomplished in leaps and bounds but in small, determined steps. And as hard as it was for him to adjust to this, adjust he must. For the past decade, he had formed his identity around his work as a homicide detective. With that now behind him—stolen from him, by his way of thinking—he needed something to hold on to. Anything. This job, however temporary, seemed a place to start. A beginning. An opportunity he could not squander. That it also felt a little like the first day of school was simply something he would have to overcome. Change never came easily.
    The snowstorm had left St. Louis in slop—wet, thick, and sticky. Tyler rolled down his window and reached outside, snagging the wiper just long enough to dislodge some of theice from the blade. A three-inch clear arc appeared through the muck on the windshield, about chin height, requiring Tyler to either sink in his seat or meet his chin to his neck and try to look out through the steering wheel. He sank. For a moment, he could actually see outside.
    Cars and trucks had spilled off the road to both sides. Flashers flashed. So did tempers. He saw two different lame attempts at fistfights, comical for the winter apparel. A tow truck, also off the highway, convinced him road conditions