No Good Reason Read Online Free
Author: Cari Hunter
than visiting your parents?”
The water that Sanne had set running hit the edge of a plate, and she had to raise her voice above the splashes. “I’m getting up early for a run, and then I need to thin out my radishes, pick some lettuce before it goes to seed, and—” She frowned at Meg. “Why are you shaking your head?”
“Honey, you lost me at ‘getting up early for a run.’”
Sanne started the washing up, clattering the cutlery in indignation. “We can’t all laze about on our arses on our days off. I like to spend mine running. And do you want fresh salad this summer, or do you want to keep buying those limp, overpriced bits of leaves from Asda?”
“I want fresh salad, please.” Meg’s response was muffled by the tea towel she was hiding behind, and she squealed as Sanne dashed soapy water at her.
“Come and fix my leaky washing machine for me, and you can have all the salad you can eat. Deal?”
They shook on it, their hands slippery and full of bubbles.
“Text me your route tomorrow,” Meg said, her voice suddenly serious. “Because I know you. You’ll be up at the crack of dawn, and no one else will be around.”
“Sounds perfect.” Sanne touched Meg’s cheek gently. “I’ll have my phone, whistle, water, survival bag, and a first aid kit. I go up on Corvenden Moss all the time. I’ll be fine.” She dropped her hand away and used a clean tea towel to dry the suds she had left on Meg’s face. “But I do love you for worrying about me.”
Chapter Two
Moments like this made Sanne grateful she lived somewhere remote. She had woken to soft morning light shining through the gaps around her curtains, while the scent of freshly cut grass and clean air filled her bedroom. She lay still, contemplating the idyllic peace.
It lasted only twenty seconds or so, however, before it was shattered by the raucous cock-a-doodle-doo of the rooster in the garden as he imitated a particularly obnoxious alarm clock. He woke all six chickens in his harem, who protested en masse. Sanne stuck her head under her pillow to drown out their squawking and once again thanked her lucky stars that she didn’t have any close neighbours. Fortunately, she was a morning person, not that her job gave her much choice in the matter. She lived about half an hour away from the police headquarters, a commute that could easily be doubled in winter, when the roads threading across the Pennines and connecting the cities of Manchester and Sheffield were often closed by snow.
There was a series of creaks as she climbed out of bed: the mattress, the floorboards, both of her knees. At thirty-three years old and with a long history of fell running, she felt as if her joints needed a good oiling first thing in the morning. Confident of her privacy, she opened the window wide and worked through her routine of stretches. Although a shower was somewhat superfluous, given that she would be mud-spattered and sweaty within the hour, she set it as hot as it would go and let it ease the remaining stiffness from her muscles. She dressed herself in front of the mirror, rolling her eyes at her towel-mussed hair. Like Meg, she kept it short, but a wayward, dogged waviness made styling it next to impossible. One gust of wind was all it would take to destroy anything she might achieve with gel or clips, and the weather in the Peak District was seldom placid. She ran a comb through it just for the hell of it and scowled at the result. Maybe next time she had it cut, she would go for broke and get rid of it all. Contemplating such an act of rebellion, however, quickly turned her scowl into a self-deprecating grin. She had no doubt that Meg would have embraced the challenge in a heartbeat, but her own nature was inclined toward conformity. She knew she would never have the guts to go through with it.
Leaving the mirror behind, she headed for the kitchen, with her reflection, captured in a series of framed photographs, tracking her down the
The water that Sanne had set running hit the edge of a plate, and she had to raise her voice above the splashes. “I’m getting up early for a run, and then I need to thin out my radishes, pick some lettuce before it goes to seed, and—” She frowned at Meg. “Why are you shaking your head?”
“Honey, you lost me at ‘getting up early for a run.’”
Sanne started the washing up, clattering the cutlery in indignation. “We can’t all laze about on our arses on our days off. I like to spend mine running. And do you want fresh salad this summer, or do you want to keep buying those limp, overpriced bits of leaves from Asda?”
“I want fresh salad, please.” Meg’s response was muffled by the tea towel she was hiding behind, and she squealed as Sanne dashed soapy water at her.
“Come and fix my leaky washing machine for me, and you can have all the salad you can eat. Deal?”
They shook on it, their hands slippery and full of bubbles.
“Text me your route tomorrow,” Meg said, her voice suddenly serious. “Because I know you. You’ll be up at the crack of dawn, and no one else will be around.”
“Sounds perfect.” Sanne touched Meg’s cheek gently. “I’ll have my phone, whistle, water, survival bag, and a first aid kit. I go up on Corvenden Moss all the time. I’ll be fine.” She dropped her hand away and used a clean tea towel to dry the suds she had left on Meg’s face. “But I do love you for worrying about me.”
Chapter Two
Moments like this made Sanne grateful she lived somewhere remote. She had woken to soft morning light shining through the gaps around her curtains, while the scent of freshly cut grass and clean air filled her bedroom. She lay still, contemplating the idyllic peace.
It lasted only twenty seconds or so, however, before it was shattered by the raucous cock-a-doodle-doo of the rooster in the garden as he imitated a particularly obnoxious alarm clock. He woke all six chickens in his harem, who protested en masse. Sanne stuck her head under her pillow to drown out their squawking and once again thanked her lucky stars that she didn’t have any close neighbours. Fortunately, she was a morning person, not that her job gave her much choice in the matter. She lived about half an hour away from the police headquarters, a commute that could easily be doubled in winter, when the roads threading across the Pennines and connecting the cities of Manchester and Sheffield were often closed by snow.
There was a series of creaks as she climbed out of bed: the mattress, the floorboards, both of her knees. At thirty-three years old and with a long history of fell running, she felt as if her joints needed a good oiling first thing in the morning. Confident of her privacy, she opened the window wide and worked through her routine of stretches. Although a shower was somewhat superfluous, given that she would be mud-spattered and sweaty within the hour, she set it as hot as it would go and let it ease the remaining stiffness from her muscles. She dressed herself in front of the mirror, rolling her eyes at her towel-mussed hair. Like Meg, she kept it short, but a wayward, dogged waviness made styling it next to impossible. One gust of wind was all it would take to destroy anything she might achieve with gel or clips, and the weather in the Peak District was seldom placid. She ran a comb through it just for the hell of it and scowled at the result. Maybe next time she had it cut, she would go for broke and get rid of it all. Contemplating such an act of rebellion, however, quickly turned her scowl into a self-deprecating grin. She had no doubt that Meg would have embraced the challenge in a heartbeat, but her own nature was inclined toward conformity. She knew she would never have the guts to go through with it.
Leaving the mirror behind, she headed for the kitchen, with her reflection, captured in a series of framed photographs, tracking her down the
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