The Blue Ridge Project: A Dark Suspense Novel (The Project Book 1) Read Online Free Page B
Author: Neil Rochford
sorry. Your mother—”
Robert frowned, then guessed what she was trying to say, what she said with her eyes. The food and orange juice fell from his hands, the juice splitting open and spreading over the floor. He fell to his knees, soaking himself in it.
“She's dead? I just left... I just got...”
The nurse held one hand to her mouth, then crouched and put that hand on his back. “I'm sorry,” she repeated.
He put his hands to his head and pulled at his hair. Tears dripped from his face and landed in the juice that crept out from the nearly empty bottle.
3
Assignments
—The Present—
The apartment Andrea Nox rented was a decent drive from the station. From time to time she’d take her eyes off the road and glance in the rearview mirror at the boxes of files in the back seat of her car. As she thought over the amount of work ahead of her, a black car turned onto the street in front of her and she almost crashed into the back of it. She pushed down on the horn and yelled expletives out the window at the driver.
She breathed out heavily, and her heart-rate returned to normal. She knew she wasn’t really angry at the driver. It was the department, the whole city she was angry with. Her frustration was at a high after spending most of the last forty-eight hours trying to gather all the files for the Solas case. They had been squirreled away by an unholy union of zealous PR people with campaign funds at their disposal, and skeleton crews of cops with mounting debts and a willingness to put things on the back burner.
Fucking cutbacks, she thought. Less money also meant more work for less people, with new classes coming out of the academy only every two years, meaning that the chaff was often left in with the wheat. Up until recently, Beacon had been part of the Regional Police Training Initiative, and that had worked pretty well for a while. Right up until it hadn’t.
Shaking her head to derail that train of thought, she pulled into her parking space, then got out and opened the back door to lift the boxes out of the back seat. She kicked the car door closed after, the sound low and heavy in the quiet of the poorly lit parking lot.
When she got to her place, she dumped the files on the living room table, threw her jacket over the back of the sofa and headed for the bathroom. A hot shower usually helped to put a divide on the day between work and home. She took five minutes more than normal, letting the water run over her, washing away the day’s frustrations. She tried to visualize her anger, which always seemed to be just under the surface of her skin these days, evaporating and drifting out with the steam, mixing with the scent of mint shampoo. After toweling off she got into her academy sweatpants and hoodie.
She grabbed the folders off the table and started laying the photographs and files out in a semicircle on the floor. Living alone with no pets, the only eyes they bothered were hers.
There had been two bodies. One was Steven Solas, son of mayoral hopeful Arthur Solas, stabbed and gutted. The father was the great white hope of Beacon, according to the unofficial fliers that she had seen around town. His son had been his campaign manager, and something of a minor local celebrity himself, with what had been a good political future ahead of him.
The photos showed the younger Solas on his back, with his insides trailing out of his abdomen and onto the ground beside him. His eyes were wide, and both the CSI guys and the coroner’s report indicated he had been alive for the evisceration.
The other body was allegedly one of the suspects. A word had been carved into his chest with what seemed like the same blade as the one used on Solas: Guilt y .
Andrea rubbed her temple as she looked at the photo. The cuts on the unknown dead man’s wrists suggested that he had punched his own ticket, as the old guys used to say. Murder-suicide was her first thought, back at the station. The guilty conscience of
Robert frowned, then guessed what she was trying to say, what she said with her eyes. The food and orange juice fell from his hands, the juice splitting open and spreading over the floor. He fell to his knees, soaking himself in it.
“She's dead? I just left... I just got...”
The nurse held one hand to her mouth, then crouched and put that hand on his back. “I'm sorry,” she repeated.
He put his hands to his head and pulled at his hair. Tears dripped from his face and landed in the juice that crept out from the nearly empty bottle.
3
Assignments
—The Present—
The apartment Andrea Nox rented was a decent drive from the station. From time to time she’d take her eyes off the road and glance in the rearview mirror at the boxes of files in the back seat of her car. As she thought over the amount of work ahead of her, a black car turned onto the street in front of her and she almost crashed into the back of it. She pushed down on the horn and yelled expletives out the window at the driver.
She breathed out heavily, and her heart-rate returned to normal. She knew she wasn’t really angry at the driver. It was the department, the whole city she was angry with. Her frustration was at a high after spending most of the last forty-eight hours trying to gather all the files for the Solas case. They had been squirreled away by an unholy union of zealous PR people with campaign funds at their disposal, and skeleton crews of cops with mounting debts and a willingness to put things on the back burner.
Fucking cutbacks, she thought. Less money also meant more work for less people, with new classes coming out of the academy only every two years, meaning that the chaff was often left in with the wheat. Up until recently, Beacon had been part of the Regional Police Training Initiative, and that had worked pretty well for a while. Right up until it hadn’t.
Shaking her head to derail that train of thought, she pulled into her parking space, then got out and opened the back door to lift the boxes out of the back seat. She kicked the car door closed after, the sound low and heavy in the quiet of the poorly lit parking lot.
When she got to her place, she dumped the files on the living room table, threw her jacket over the back of the sofa and headed for the bathroom. A hot shower usually helped to put a divide on the day between work and home. She took five minutes more than normal, letting the water run over her, washing away the day’s frustrations. She tried to visualize her anger, which always seemed to be just under the surface of her skin these days, evaporating and drifting out with the steam, mixing with the scent of mint shampoo. After toweling off she got into her academy sweatpants and hoodie.
She grabbed the folders off the table and started laying the photographs and files out in a semicircle on the floor. Living alone with no pets, the only eyes they bothered were hers.
There had been two bodies. One was Steven Solas, son of mayoral hopeful Arthur Solas, stabbed and gutted. The father was the great white hope of Beacon, according to the unofficial fliers that she had seen around town. His son had been his campaign manager, and something of a minor local celebrity himself, with what had been a good political future ahead of him.
The photos showed the younger Solas on his back, with his insides trailing out of his abdomen and onto the ground beside him. His eyes were wide, and both the CSI guys and the coroner’s report indicated he had been alive for the evisceration.
The other body was allegedly one of the suspects. A word had been carved into his chest with what seemed like the same blade as the one used on Solas: Guilt y .
Andrea rubbed her temple as she looked at the photo. The cuts on the unknown dead man’s wrists suggested that he had punched his own ticket, as the old guys used to say. Murder-suicide was her first thought, back at the station. The guilty conscience of
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