Second Grave on the Left Read Online Free Page B

speaking metaphorically. We would never really h-have…” I’d looked back at his face, at the almost contemptuous expression lining his mouth, and a vague familiarity tingled along my spine. In a Stephen King’s It sort of way. “You wouldn’t happen to be related to Owen Vaughn?”
    His mouth thinned. “I am Owen Vaughn.”
    No way. For reasons known only to him, Owen Vaughn tried to kill me in high school. With an SUV. Though he later told the police he was only trying to maim me, he refused to tell them why. I’d apparently rained buckets on his parade, but for the life of me, I never figured out what I’d done.
    I decided to play it cool. No need to throw past criminal activity in his face. Time to let bygones be bygones. Mostly ’cause he had a gun and I didn’t.
    I smiled and socked him in the arm like we were old friends. “Long time, no see, Vaughn.”
    It didn’t work. He tensed, took a moment to examine the place where my fist had made contact, then let his gaze wander back to me, zero in on my eyes like he wanted nothing more than to strangle the life out of them.
    Awkward.
    Then I remembered he’d been friends with Neil Gossett in high school. I’d recently become reacquainted with Neil, and decided to use that bit of info to break the block of ice Vaughn was encased in. “Oh, hey, I just saw Neil the other day. He’s the deputy warden at the prison in Santa Fe.”
    “I know where Neil Gossett is,” he said, the contempt in his voice undiluted. “I know where all of you are.” He leaned toward me. “Don’t ever doubt that.”
    I stood in shock a solid minute as he turned and walked to his patrol car. Cookie stared, too, her jaw slightly ajar as she watched him drive away.
    “He didn’t even check the trunk,” she said.
    “Is it just me,” I asked, gazing at his disappearing taillights, “or was that a really stalkery kind of thing to say?”
    “What the hell did you do to him?”
    “Me?” I placed a hand over my chest to demonstrate how much her words hurt. “Why do you always assume it’s my fault?”
    “Because it always is.”
    “I’ll have you know that man tried to maim me in high school. With an SUV.”
    She turned to me then, her expression incredulous. “Have you ever considered moving to another country?”
    “Oddly, yes.”
    “Trunk. Dead body.” She walked to the car and unlocked the trunk lid.
    I dived toward her, closing the lid before the dead guy could see me.
    “I knew it,” she said, backing away from the car again. “There’s a dead body in the trunk.”
    Trying to shush her with an index finger slamming against my mouth repeatedly, I whispered, loudly, like drunks do in a singles bar, “It’s not a dead body. It’s a dead guy . There’s a difference. And if he realizes I can see him, he’ll be all up in my face, trying to get me to solve his murder and crap.”
    Suddenly her expression turned accusing. “You were going to let me drive around with that guy in my trunk forever.”
    “What?” I said with a snort. “No way. Well, not forever. Just a few days, until I figured out who he was.”
    She stepped forward until we stood toe to toe. “That is wrong on so many levels.” Then she turned and started walking home.
    Darn it. I jogged up behind her, marveling at how much ground a large pissed-off woman could cover in so short a time. “Cookie, you can’t walk home. It’s still dark. And we’re on Central.”
    “I would rather meet ten bad guys in a dozen dark alleys than ride in that car.” She pointed behind her without missing a step.
    After doing the math in my head, I asked, “What about dark parking lots? Or dark breezeways? That would be scary, too, huh?”
    She trod onward, continuing her noble quest to avoid the departed by getting herself knifed for the five dollars in her back pocket. While I couldn’t quite see the logic, I did understand the fear. Wait—no, I didn’t.
    “Cookie, I have dead people around me all the