The Silent Boy (Emma McPherson Book 1) by A.J. Flynn (early reader books .txt) 📗

had driven him wild. He would have signed anything in order to get his hands on her. Even now he could still remember the nights running up to their wedding, when he had lain in bed thinking of how he might teach her about sex and love, about how he might mold her from a girl into a passionate young woman, with eyes that were only for him. Christ, that was a laugh. She had gone from an unknown girl, who was always sick to her stomach, to a woman whose favorite remark was, “Oh don’t act like such an animal.”

Robb covered the remaining half block to his car with quick steps. He paused behind the wheel in order to light up a cigarette and admire the fine dashboard. It was a large, impressive car, and it never failed to give him pleasure when he looked at it. Sometimes he would feel a twinge of guilt about the cost of it, but a professional car salesman couldn’t be seen driving a junker.

The powerful motor roared to life, and he eased his way smoothly into the street. Once he was in the lane of traffic, he settled in more comfortably and allowed his thoughts to return to Claire.

Mississippi was where they had met, and if there was a more godforsaken place in the world, he had never seen it. The sunny south was colder than a whore’s heart, and the people were even colder. From the way they acted, you’d think every guy stationed there had asked specifically to be sent to a lousy state, just so it would irritate them.

Maybe that was the reason why Claire had looked so good. She’d been a waitress at the time, and while she didn’t fall head over heels trying to be friendly, at least she was civil.

She had been pretty too. Blonde waves, blue eyes with heavy lashes, and a body that was a shade bit heartier than was fashionable, but there was softness about its curves that shouted female. That was the first thing that hooked him. All that innocence, and the vague promise of what might develop.

If anything, it sure proved just how wrong a man can be in his own judgement. Like tonight, for instance. She’d be tucked away in bed, breathing in her own special way. It was a soft sound, somewhere between a sniffle and a snore. Her head would look like something out of Greek mythology, with pins sticking out at every angle. Even if by some chance she was still up, she would ask where he’d been so late, and whether he would like something to eat. Then, feeling satisfied that she’d done her duty, she would go back to bed and sleep like a baby.

In some ways it worked out just fine, though. Once he’d given up trying to make her into a wife, he made up his mind to do whatever he damn well pleased, and nothing pleased him more than frequenting second-rate bars and picking up second-rate women. He especially liked the ones he wouldn’t be able to recognize the next morning. Ladies with class didn’t appeal to him. He felt most at home with loose women who warmed up to him after a few drinks. The self-disgust and guilt he sometimes felt the morning after was just something he tolerated until he could return to them the following evening.

It surprised him to see that the lights were still on in most of the neighborhood houses as he pulled into his driveway. It was nearly two in the morning, and the people who lived there were usually asleep by now. Even from his own house a blade of light peeked its way through a slit in the heavy drapery.

He opened the door quietly, mostly out of force of habit, and stepped into the living room, where Claire sat working on her nightly crocheting.

“Kind of late for you to be up, wouldn’t you say?” he asked.

She set down her yarn and hurried to help him take off his coat. “Oh, Robb, the most terrible thing just happened. Charlie Turner was murdered.”

Robb watched as she took his coat to the closet. The drinks were starting to wear off and his head was pounding.

“Who the hell is Charlie Turner?”

“The boy from across the street,” she said as she carefully placed the coat upon a hanger, making sure the seams hung down straight. “The police said some man found him out in the woods tonight. Said he’d been strangled.”

“Why would anyone want to kill a little kid?”

Claire hurried over to his chair to smooth the crocheted pieces out on the back and arms before he sat down. “That’s what’s so scary. When the police were here, they assured me he hadn’t been molested. They insisted he’d died of strangulation, but I know they were only trying to spare me. It had to have been a pedophile.”

Robb took a seat and looked at his wife. Murder or not, she’d taken the time to twist pins in her hair and smear goo on her face, and now she was standing there with her mouth compressed into a thin line of disapproval, talking calmly about pedophiles.

A rush of rage swelled through him that nearly made him sick to his stomach. “There just has to be some dirty old man in it somewhere, doesn’t there?” he asked in a deceptively calm tone.

Claire stared at her husband in surprise. “Well, it only stands to reason. Charlie was a nice, quiet little boy. He stopped by a few times for cookies, and he wasn’t the sort to cause trouble. For someone to kill another human being, there has to be a reason, unless he’s insane. The police just don’t want to let anybody know, for fear of frightening us.” Her tone was like that of a schoolteacher explaining something to a flunky.

Robb was so angry his hands began to shake. For a moment he felt like he might even give in to the