The Battle for Jericho Read Online Free Page B

remember you, kid,” Dylan said, his voice rising with impatience. “What do you want?”
    He wasn’t going to make this easy, not that I deserved it. I forced myself to look him in the eye. “I came to turn myself in.”
    Dylan’s eyes widened. For a moment, it seemed he was at a complete loss. Then his face tightened with suspicion. “Enough with the games, okay. Just get outta here. Go, before I call the sheriff.” He stepped back inside and started to close the door.
    The dam in my head broke, and all the pent-up emotion came spilling out. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I didn’t want to hurt you, I swear. I’m so sorry, and that’s why I’m here, so you can call the sheriff. Please!”
    Dylan froze, the door half-closed. There was still doubt in his face. Before he could make another move, I started bawling, my chest heaving with tremulous, gasping sobs. Surprisingly, Dylan’s face softened with sympathy, which just made me cry harder.
    He reached out as if to put his arm around my shoulders but stopped himself before he could touch me. Then he pulled the door open and waved for me to come in.

Chapter 4

     
    I AM not a pretty weeper. My entire face leaks like a broken faucet. Along with the tears pouring from my eyes, my nose runs, and I drool. Not even Mom will hug me when I’m crying.
    I couldn’t see as I stumbled into Dylan’s house, mostly because I had my knuckles jammed in my eyes. Slumping into a chair, I lifted my jersey and buried my face in it to soak up the juices. A bath towel materialized in my hands, and I cried into that. The sobs tapered off within minutes but I kept my face hidden. Here’s a bit of advice: Don’t break down and weep like an abandoned two-year-old in front of a complete stranger. It’s highly embarrassing.
    My body felt drained, and I knew I’d wind up snoring if I remained sunken in that cushy chair. Falling asleep in front of a man whose head I’d bashed open didn’t seem especially wise. I rubbed the towel briskly across my face, both to reinvigorate myself and remove all traces of mucus. Then I lowered the towel and pushed myself upright.
    Dylan stood beside the chair, holding a steaming mug in his hand. He was smiling, but not in a boy-did-you-just-make-a-fool-of-yourself sort of way. His expression was full of concern. “Here,” he said, presenting the mug to me.
    I took the mug and sniffed. The stuff inside looked like coffee, but it smelled like the chocolate-covered mints my dad hides around the house to snack on. Are there poisons that have a minty-fresh aroma?
    My apprehension must have shown, because Dylan shook his head, laughed, and said, “It’s just coffee. I added a shot of peppermint flavor. Trust me, you need it. Drink up.”
    The stuff was hot, so I took a long, noisy slurp from the mug to avoid burning my mouth. When it went down, warmth quickly swelled throughout my torso. It was a really good warmth, making me feel as if I were going to float off the chair. Or sink right through it. The second slurp was even better. I started wondering what was in that shot of peppermint flavor, and then decided I didn’t give a crap. For the first time in two days, I smiled.
    “Feeling better?” Dylan asked. His own smile had gotten wider, so it was obvious he knew the answer to that one.
    I nodded anyway and took another gulp from the mug.
    Dylan’s living room had an elegant, homey, but somewhat empty feel to it. The sofa, loveseat, and chair were overstuffed, covered in white leather. The glass-top tables were bare except for a tall, narrow brass lamp on one of the end tables. The only picture was a big, brass-framed painting of Saturn and its rings as seen from one of its moons. My parents’ living room was absolutely cluttered by comparison. My folks have a thing for ethnic art. They had sculptures, pottery, and figurines from Africa, China, India, Mexico, and God knows where else displayed on every available surface.
    Dylan sat down on the