I Spy Dead People Read Online Free Page B
Author: Jennifer Fischetto
scream.
CHAPTER FOUR
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It's Kinley. And when she screams in my face, I scream a second time. We take off and run down the street to my house, no longer caring how much noise we make. When we stop at my stairs, we're both panting. The back of my tee is stuck to my skin.
"What happened?" She clutches the midsection of her tank top.
I look the way we came. It's clear, no cars, no people. At least as far as I can see. I tell her about the car and the argument.
She places her hands on her knees, bends over, and giggles uncontrollably.
"Are you alright?" Is she having some sort of diabetic seizure?
"I'm s-sorry. When I'm nervous, I laugh."
My front door opens, and I gasp. Dad steps forward. "What's going on?"
I slip the charm into the front pocket of my shorts. "Nothing. Oh, Dad, this is Kinley."
She stands straight and tugs her top lip down with her teeth.
"Nice to meet you, Kinley."
"You too, Mr. Grimaldi. I gotta go. Bye, Piper." She giggles then runs to her house. At her door, she waves before going inside.
"What was that about?" Dad takes a step back to allow me room to pass him.
"We were joking around, making silly faces, you know. So you're taking a break? Want some ice cream?" Hopefully he won't notice my shaky hands or irregular breathing.
He shuts the door, turns the deadbolt, and stares into his office. "I shouldn't, angel. I have to get started."
"It's Rocky Road. The clerk at the store said they normally don't sell that flavor. It was some kind of fluke. That has to be a sign that we should share a bowl."
He chuckles. "Okay, a fast bowl. In my office."
Which means I'll eat, he'll work, and I'll have to dump his bowl of melted goo when I'm done. But at least it gets me into his office. I run to the bathroom then head back to the kitchen and make two bowls of chocolatey-marshmallow goodness and add a drizzle, okay a heavy stream, of Hershey's chocolate syrup to mine. Grabbing spoons, I take the dessert into Dad's office, set his bowl on his desk, and plop into a chair.
"So how's it going?"
He's reading what looks like a police file, tapping a pen along a pad of paper with chaotic written notes. Dad's infamous chicken scrawl, as he calls it. He used to put notes in my lunchbox in elementary school, and I'd always come home and ask what he wrote.
I lean forward and peruse his desk, but it's hard to read upside down, so I swivel in my chair to get a better look at the bulletin board he's created on the wall.
A large photo of Cameron McDougal hangs in the center. He was blonde, tan, and had electric blue eyes. For an older guy, he's not bad looking. Totally more horror movie lead than serial killer.
From what I've read on the internet, Cameron lived alone. He spoke with a client around five pm, and at ten-thirty, his girlfriend, who he was supposed to meet for dinner, came by looking for him. She found the front door shut but unlocked and him sprawled across his bed sliced and diced. He was stabbed thirty-two times. Someone was super pissed.
The police suspected his girlfriend and accountant. Chloe is a striking brunette, a model he met during a photo shoot. They had a very public fight the night before, but she swears they made up the next morning, and dinner was their new start. Martin Nixon, a man with two first and last names, had a partial alibi, but when the cops discovered he was embezzling money from his clients, including Cameron, Martin became suspect numero uno .
"It's melting." I lick marshmallow residue off my spoon.
Dad looks up. "Huh?"
I point to his bowl, and a plop of ice cream falls onto my shorts. I pick up most of it with my spoon then smudge the stain with my finger. "So if you don't think the accountant killed him, then who?"
"I've only been researching for a few hours, Piper." He picks up his spoon and pushes a melting scoop into his mouth.
This may be true, but I know he already has a theory. He starts researching a new book as soon as he decides which murder to write
CHAPTER FOUR
Â
It's Kinley. And when she screams in my face, I scream a second time. We take off and run down the street to my house, no longer caring how much noise we make. When we stop at my stairs, we're both panting. The back of my tee is stuck to my skin.
"What happened?" She clutches the midsection of her tank top.
I look the way we came. It's clear, no cars, no people. At least as far as I can see. I tell her about the car and the argument.
She places her hands on her knees, bends over, and giggles uncontrollably.
"Are you alright?" Is she having some sort of diabetic seizure?
"I'm s-sorry. When I'm nervous, I laugh."
My front door opens, and I gasp. Dad steps forward. "What's going on?"
I slip the charm into the front pocket of my shorts. "Nothing. Oh, Dad, this is Kinley."
She stands straight and tugs her top lip down with her teeth.
"Nice to meet you, Kinley."
"You too, Mr. Grimaldi. I gotta go. Bye, Piper." She giggles then runs to her house. At her door, she waves before going inside.
"What was that about?" Dad takes a step back to allow me room to pass him.
"We were joking around, making silly faces, you know. So you're taking a break? Want some ice cream?" Hopefully he won't notice my shaky hands or irregular breathing.
He shuts the door, turns the deadbolt, and stares into his office. "I shouldn't, angel. I have to get started."
"It's Rocky Road. The clerk at the store said they normally don't sell that flavor. It was some kind of fluke. That has to be a sign that we should share a bowl."
He chuckles. "Okay, a fast bowl. In my office."
Which means I'll eat, he'll work, and I'll have to dump his bowl of melted goo when I'm done. But at least it gets me into his office. I run to the bathroom then head back to the kitchen and make two bowls of chocolatey-marshmallow goodness and add a drizzle, okay a heavy stream, of Hershey's chocolate syrup to mine. Grabbing spoons, I take the dessert into Dad's office, set his bowl on his desk, and plop into a chair.
"So how's it going?"
He's reading what looks like a police file, tapping a pen along a pad of paper with chaotic written notes. Dad's infamous chicken scrawl, as he calls it. He used to put notes in my lunchbox in elementary school, and I'd always come home and ask what he wrote.
I lean forward and peruse his desk, but it's hard to read upside down, so I swivel in my chair to get a better look at the bulletin board he's created on the wall.
A large photo of Cameron McDougal hangs in the center. He was blonde, tan, and had electric blue eyes. For an older guy, he's not bad looking. Totally more horror movie lead than serial killer.
From what I've read on the internet, Cameron lived alone. He spoke with a client around five pm, and at ten-thirty, his girlfriend, who he was supposed to meet for dinner, came by looking for him. She found the front door shut but unlocked and him sprawled across his bed sliced and diced. He was stabbed thirty-two times. Someone was super pissed.
The police suspected his girlfriend and accountant. Chloe is a striking brunette, a model he met during a photo shoot. They had a very public fight the night before, but she swears they made up the next morning, and dinner was their new start. Martin Nixon, a man with two first and last names, had a partial alibi, but when the cops discovered he was embezzling money from his clients, including Cameron, Martin became suspect numero uno .
"It's melting." I lick marshmallow residue off my spoon.
Dad looks up. "Huh?"
I point to his bowl, and a plop of ice cream falls onto my shorts. I pick up most of it with my spoon then smudge the stain with my finger. "So if you don't think the accountant killed him, then who?"
"I've only been researching for a few hours, Piper." He picks up his spoon and pushes a melting scoop into his mouth.
This may be true, but I know he already has a theory. He starts researching a new book as soon as he decides which murder to write
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