The Deadly Sister Read Online Free Page B
Author: Eliot Schrefer
sister. If I was the one to spend so much of my life looking after her, didn’t I at least deserve to know everyone she knew?
“You wait around,” one said.
“So you know, we were here first,” said the other with a smirk.
“We don’t need tattoos,” I said. “I just have to talk to him. Do you know which studio is his?”
“He’s probably upstairs,” said the first girl. “He lives here.” She thumbed toward the back of the parlor. “I like your dog.”
I cautioned myself as I climbed the stairs: Don’t act like you suspect Maya, or she won’t let you help. My throat tightened.
Keith—and this guy could only be Keith—opened the door. Not a gawky emo boy after all. A long history of ink on his body. Predictable tattoos in the predictable places (a girl on a bicep, a skull on a calf) in faded ink, and fresher and more unusual images in more unusual places. A typewriter on the inside of his elbow. A planet on the cordedmuscle that led into his boxers. He was wearing only those boxers.
The tattoos were too plentiful and too engrossing. The door had been open for rich seconds and I hadn’t said a thing.
Say something.
He was a warrior, something from a dreamscape.
Say something.
A snake vined through the paisley on his shoulder, its tongue licking toward his earlobe.
“I’m Cheyenne and this is Abby,” Cheyenne said, pushing past me. “The dog’s name is Cody.”
“You look just like Maya,” Keith said to me as he reached out a hand to fend off Cody, who was in full greeting mode. No one ever said I looked like Maya. Flirting cashiers called us cousins, and even that was a stretch. We had the same body type; that was it.
“I’m sorry?” I said.
“‘I’m sorry?’” Keith echoed back in a mocking accent that might have been aiming at British. A moment came back to me: getting into the family car, Maya calling me affected. I hadn’t known what the word meant, but I knew what it felt like and argued back hotly. Maya had only stared at me from her half of the backseat. I have something on you. I am larger. I reach further.
“Abby Goodwin and Co.,” Keith said. “Come in.”
It was a busy, dirty loft space, more an attic than an apartment. But clean light streamed in, illuminating Keith’s ink.He turned and sauntered into the room, not bothering to look back. In Maya’s world, assumptions were good enough. Keith was hardly concerned whether Cheyenne and I felt welcome.
He plucked a limp collared shirt from the back of a chair and shrugged it on. A sea turtle disappeared under the neckband. The tattoos were strategic: When he turned around with the shirt on, none of them were visible.
“Is Maya here?” I asked.
“It’s a small space,” Keith said. “What you see is all there is.”
I did a quick scan. One door, hanging open, led to a bathroom. The rest of the loft was cluttered, full of hidden corners. I glanced in a wastepaper basket next to me and then wished I hadn’t. There was a blue bandage on top, blood leaking from an oval in the center and sealing one side in a crimson line. It looked like a used pad. Cody already had her nose halfway into the basket. I yanked her back.
Keith noticed my reaction. “That’s your sister’s, actually. She had me do a tattoo cover-up last night. It bled more than usual, but that’s probably because her skin was still sensitive from the original. She only got it a few weeks ago.”
“What time was that?” I asked. “The cover-up, I mean.”
“Early evening. Eight, maybe?”
There were other things I should have asked about, but I couldn’t get my brain to put events in order. Cheyenne stepped in. “Did she stay the night?” she asked.
“I’m not sure she’d want me to give her sister that kind of information.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.
“You want something to drink? I’ve got, um, water or bourbon. No? Suit yourself. All I mean is that you two aren’t exactly the closest of sisters. I
“You wait around,” one said.
“So you know, we were here first,” said the other with a smirk.
“We don’t need tattoos,” I said. “I just have to talk to him. Do you know which studio is his?”
“He’s probably upstairs,” said the first girl. “He lives here.” She thumbed toward the back of the parlor. “I like your dog.”
I cautioned myself as I climbed the stairs: Don’t act like you suspect Maya, or she won’t let you help. My throat tightened.
Keith—and this guy could only be Keith—opened the door. Not a gawky emo boy after all. A long history of ink on his body. Predictable tattoos in the predictable places (a girl on a bicep, a skull on a calf) in faded ink, and fresher and more unusual images in more unusual places. A typewriter on the inside of his elbow. A planet on the cordedmuscle that led into his boxers. He was wearing only those boxers.
The tattoos were too plentiful and too engrossing. The door had been open for rich seconds and I hadn’t said a thing.
Say something.
He was a warrior, something from a dreamscape.
Say something.
A snake vined through the paisley on his shoulder, its tongue licking toward his earlobe.
“I’m Cheyenne and this is Abby,” Cheyenne said, pushing past me. “The dog’s name is Cody.”
“You look just like Maya,” Keith said to me as he reached out a hand to fend off Cody, who was in full greeting mode. No one ever said I looked like Maya. Flirting cashiers called us cousins, and even that was a stretch. We had the same body type; that was it.
“I’m sorry?” I said.
“‘I’m sorry?’” Keith echoed back in a mocking accent that might have been aiming at British. A moment came back to me: getting into the family car, Maya calling me affected. I hadn’t known what the word meant, but I knew what it felt like and argued back hotly. Maya had only stared at me from her half of the backseat. I have something on you. I am larger. I reach further.
“Abby Goodwin and Co.,” Keith said. “Come in.”
It was a busy, dirty loft space, more an attic than an apartment. But clean light streamed in, illuminating Keith’s ink.He turned and sauntered into the room, not bothering to look back. In Maya’s world, assumptions were good enough. Keith was hardly concerned whether Cheyenne and I felt welcome.
He plucked a limp collared shirt from the back of a chair and shrugged it on. A sea turtle disappeared under the neckband. The tattoos were strategic: When he turned around with the shirt on, none of them were visible.
“Is Maya here?” I asked.
“It’s a small space,” Keith said. “What you see is all there is.”
I did a quick scan. One door, hanging open, led to a bathroom. The rest of the loft was cluttered, full of hidden corners. I glanced in a wastepaper basket next to me and then wished I hadn’t. There was a blue bandage on top, blood leaking from an oval in the center and sealing one side in a crimson line. It looked like a used pad. Cody already had her nose halfway into the basket. I yanked her back.
Keith noticed my reaction. “That’s your sister’s, actually. She had me do a tattoo cover-up last night. It bled more than usual, but that’s probably because her skin was still sensitive from the original. She only got it a few weeks ago.”
“What time was that?” I asked. “The cover-up, I mean.”
“Early evening. Eight, maybe?”
There were other things I should have asked about, but I couldn’t get my brain to put events in order. Cheyenne stepped in. “Did she stay the night?” she asked.
“I’m not sure she’d want me to give her sister that kind of information.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.
“You want something to drink? I’ve got, um, water or bourbon. No? Suit yourself. All I mean is that you two aren’t exactly the closest of sisters. I