The Stranger by Mark Ayre (books you need to read TXT) 📗

”Parents’ car’s there,” said Abbie, pointing.

“I told you,” said Michael. “They’ll be at the pub. They’re always at the pub. It’s only down the road.”

Michael made to get out. Before he could take the door handle, Abbie grabbed his wrist.

“I appreciate you think you can help, but I don’t know how much your friendship will be worth here. You have to understand; if you can’t get Travis to give me what I want, I’ll have to find another way.”

Michael looked from the car window to Abbie. Seemed to flinch at her stony eyes. She hated that reaction, though she was getting so used to it.

“Will you hurt him?”

“Define hurt.”

“Like, will you beat him up?”

“No,” said Abbie. “He’s a kid, as far as I’m concerned. If he really winds me up, I might struggle to resist giving him a slap, but I won’t break any bones or draw any blood.”

“Okay then.”

Still, Abbie held Michael’s wrist.

“There are more and deeper ways to hurt a person than physically.”

Again, Michael met Abbie’s eye. The hardness still scared him, but he understood. Young as Michael was, the teen had already experienced much suffering. His father’s abandonment, his mother’s addiction, the loan sharks who threatened to rip away what little he had. Michael knew the power non-physical pain had to break a person. Therefore, he had to consider.

At last, he said, “Travis let us down and put us in danger when he refused to give that bag to Francis, and then he stole your bag after you saved his life. He needs to learn a lesson. Let’s go.”

This time she let his wrist slip from her hand and allowed him to pull open the door and step outside. Leaving the car, she followed him down the drive. Before she reached the front stoop, Michael had knocked, and someone was already moving inside.

“Let me do the talking,” he said, as though he were in charge. Abbie gave him a look that displayed her disapproval, then shrugged.

“The floor is yours.”

No glass in this door, frosted or otherwise. Abbie and Michael could not see who was coming but could hear feet down the stairs, a hand removing the chain, the latch flicking back, and the handle turning. Then the door was swinging open, and Clarissa was revealed.

“Hey, Riss,” said Michael. “Can we come in?”

Clarissa’s eyes flashed to Michael as he spoke, then moved to Abbie before widening in horror.

She slammed the door.

Or tried. Abbie managed simultaneously to direct a pointed look at Michael and catch the door with a palm. This was impressive, though Michael showed no signs of awe.

Weakened by grief, Eddie had stood no chance of slamming the door in Abbie’s face when she had earlier prevented him from doing what Clarissa was now attempting. Clarissa wasn’t grieving but apparently had no upper body strength. With ease, Abbie was able to open the door, even as Clarissa, with all her might, tried to prevent the older woman’s entry.

“Breaking and entering,” the mouse that was Clarissa squealed as Abbie crossed the threshold. Though Abbie had only eased the door open, Clarissa had collapsed to the floor as though Abbie had used a battering ram.

When Michael entered, Clarissa turned his way. The squeak vanished from her voice.

“You piece of shit.”

“Play nice,” said Abbie. “Or don’t, but either way, tell me where I can find Travis.”

“He’s not here,” said Clarissa, as her eyes flicked to the stairs.

“Fine,” said Abbie. She turned as though to leave, spun 180 on her heel, and rushed up the stairs.

From the bottom, Clarissa shrieked, “She’s coming. Run, baby, run.”

At the peak of the staircase, a short landing. Had Travis remained still, Abbie would have had no idea where to go. All the doors were closed. But hearing Clarissa’s call, Travis scrambled to escape, and Abbie heard behind which door he moved.

Throwing open the door, she burst into Clarissa’s bedroom. Wearing only boxers and a half-buttoned shirt, Travis was opening the window and trying to climb through. Over his shoulder was an expensive black bag that did not suit him.

“Idiot,” muttered Abbie. Crossing the room, she grabbed him by shirt and shoulder and hauled him back.

With a baby’s cry, he tumbled, fell, smacked the ground, and his head bounced off a thick rug. As though that rug was uneven concrete, Travis yelled in pain.

More footsteps, rushing up the stairs. A few moments later, Clarissa entered the room to see Abbie standing over Travis.

“Get away from him,” she said. There were tears in her eyes, and she was brandishing a cushion.

“I hope you’re not planning to smother me,” said Abbie.

Clarissa went to Travis, who rose as she arrived as though operated by a counterweight. Hate burning in his eyes, Travis pointed at the black bag.

“You better give that back, bitch. It’s mine.”

“Is it, though?” said Abbie. “Does it not belong to Leona? Francis might have a claim because he paid you to steal it, but in no world is it yours.”

There was a silver clasp at the top. As Abbie popped it open, Travis stepped forward and lashed out with a fist which Abbie blocked. Raising a foot, she kicked him to the rug.

“You really are an idiot,” she said. A quick peek in the bag told her the black book wasn’t there. She could see only a phone, a purse, some coins, and a folded piece of card. “Where’s my book?”

As she spoke, Michael appeared in the doorway. Travis turned as the door opened. Shock spread across his features, and again he resorted to that pathetic pointing finger.

“What are you doing here?”

Clarissa had one hand on Travis’ chest, the other on his leg. Still weeping, she pressed her head into Travis’ shoulder.

“He betrayed us, Trav. We should never have trusted him.”

Abbie looked at Michael. “You never told me they were into their amateur dramatics. Emphasis on amateur.”

“Screw you,” said Clarissa, then gave a squeal as Travis shoved her away, and