River of Glass Read Online Free Page B

shoulders.
    “Fine,” Frank said. “As soon as you give me your statement.”
    It wasn’t much of a statement. No, I’d never seen the girl before. No, I had no idea who she might be.
    I finished my statement and peeled off the paper jumpsuit, cap, and booties. Frank flipped his report book closed. He looked tired, and I suddenly remembered something he’d said back at the house.
    “Hey,” I said. “It’s Thursday.”
    “So?”
    “So, you haven’t missed a shift since bread was invented. Why’d they have to call you to come in?”
    His grin came a beat too late. “I’m not sure you’re in a position to throw stones.”
    “Not throwing stones. Just—”
    “Mac,” he said. “Go to Paulie’s meeting. Everything’s fine.”
    “If you need—”
    He held up his phone. Waggled it. “I’ve got you on speed dial.”
    Since pushing Frank was about as effective as trying to levitate a tank with the power of your mind, I let it go. He’d tell me when he was ready. He led me back around to the front and lifted the crime scene tape. As I ducked under, Ashleigh called my name and started in my direction. I trotted across the street to the Silverado and pretended not to hear.

3
    I slipped into the meeting room of the Mount Juliet community center just as the last boy was receiving his progress bead from the Cubmaster, a scrawny guy named Leon Musgrave, who wore Coke-bottle glasses and had an Adam’s apple the size of a nectarine. In the front row, beside D.W., Paulie slumped in a metal folding chair, his cap pulled down too far in front, his new bead clenched in one stubby hand.
    When we’d first learned our son had Down syndrome, we’d wondered if he’d ever ride a bike, play baseball, even dress himself. Now I felt a swell of pride at the sight of him in his blue uniform, his yellow scarf knotted at the base of his throat.
    Musgrave gave an affectionate pat to the last Scout’s cap. With a broad grin, the boy clomped down the stage steps, and as if on cue, a horde of chattering youngsters surged out of their seats and swarmed toward the refreshment table, where a guy in a well-floured apron was setting out cookies. D.W. said something to Paul, who shook his head and slumped lower in his chair. His lips looked a little blue, and for a moment, my throat closed. Kids with Down syndrome are prone to heart defects, and Paul had had a murmur since he was a baby. Then I saw the cup of purple Kool-Aid on the seat beside him and let out a relieved breath.
    I commandeered another cup of Kool-Aid, wrapped a couple of chocolate chip cookies in a napkin, and took them over to him. He looked up and scooted closer to D.W. He might as well have carved my heart out with a screwdriver.
    “Hey, Sport,” I said, and held the cup and cookies out to him. He ignored them.
    “Cub Scout is honest,” he said, reproach in his gravelly voice. “You said pick me up.”
    “I’m sorry, Sport. Something came up. Police stuff.”
    D.W. stood and stretched. “I’m gonna go get a cup of that Kool-Aid myself,” he said, and wandered off.
    Paul said, “I hate police stuff.”
    “I hate it too sometimes.” I slid into the seat D.W. had vacated. Held up the Kool-Aid. “You sure you don’t want this?”
    After a moment, he reached for it. Took a long sip. I handed him a cookie, and while he nibbled at it, I ate the other one. By the time he’d finished the cookie and the juice, there was a purple ring around his upper lip, and he was sitting up a little straighter.
    “Look,” he said, and opened the hand with the bead.
    My chest loosened. “It’s terrific. I’m proud of you, Sport.”
    He climbed onto my lap and chattered about the upcoming Blue and Gold banquet, where he would become a full-fledged Wolf. Then I set him on the floor and held out my empty hand. He took it, palm damp and a little sticky, and I led him over to D.W., who was watching with a bland, enigmatic look on his face that made me want to punch