Drift Away (Noah Braddock Mysteries) Read Free

to show off his muscles.
     
    “You should move,” I said. “Now.”
     
    An evil slit creased his mouth. “Oh, good. You do talk.”
     
    I didn’t say anything.
     
    “You see that girl or that kid again,” he said. “Stay away. Got it?”
     
    I didn’t say anything.
     
    “I said do you got it?” he snarled again and poked his finger in my chest.
     
    I grabbed his finger and bent it straight back. He swung at me with his free arm but I already had my arm up to block it. I stepped forward with my right leg and swept it quickly back into him. He went straight down to the pavement on his back and I dropped hard onto him, my knee smashing into his chest.
     
    His sunglasses were gone and his eyes bulged. He opened his mouth but nothing came out of it, not even when his finger snapped and went limp. I loosened my grip and  tears formed in the corners of his eyes but he still didn’t make a sound. I rose off him and then jammed my knee into his sternum again. He gasped, for air or because of the pain, I didn’t know.
     
    I stared at him, months of rage bubbling in my system, begging to be released. The hair on my arms stood at attention and the heat on my skin had nothing to do with the air temperature.
     
    Colin ’s eyes squeezed shut in agony, his mouth open, eager for oxygen to find its way into his empty, compressed lungs.
     
    I stood.
     
    He coughed and wheezed as he whimpered over his finger. He rolled onto his side, hugging the broken finger to his chest, his eyes still closed.
     
    I adjusted the backpack on my shoulders and scanned the parking lot. We were alone in the dimming sun and suffocating heat. I took a deep breath, trying to release the anger inside me. I felt nothing—no remorse, no sorrow, no guilt—for what I’d done to him. I knew that wasn’t a good thing, that it could take over in a fraction of a second and I’d end up doing more than just hurting him. Just like I’d done with Keene.
     
    I tugged on the straps of the backpack and looked down at him. He was curled up in the fetal position. He’d need a cast and he’d be sore, but he’d be alright. Well and dumb enough to bother me again, most likely.
     
    I walked away from him, leaving him there on the pavement, and hoped he would prove me wrong.
     

FIVE
                 
     
    I crossed the sand-covered street into the neighborhoods, across from the condos and hotels. Fort Walton Beach was a narrow strip of land sandwiched between the Gulf of Mexico to the south and a curving, twisting bay to the north. The neighborhoods were a combination of low-slung bungalows and newer homes that had been built on lots where bungalows had been torn down. Most of the front yards consisted of sand and rock, almost like a desert, but the newer homes—the ones with money—paid a pretty penny for irrigated lawns.
     
    The residents were a mish-mash, just like the homes themselves—some had been there forever, some showed up just for the cooler months. Working class locals co-mingled with the nouveau riche .
     
    I walked several blocks in until I was one street off the bay. I stopped at the last house on the cul-de-sac, a two-story structure in various stages of renovation. The driveway was a dirt path, staked for the concrete that Ike said was being poured the next day. The yard was dead weeds and cracked soil. Trenching it for sprinklers was going to be a chore.
     
    Ike was the contractor on the house, a jack of all trades. I helped out around the property and supervised the subs when he wasn’t around in exchange for a place to stay. The partially-converted garage space I was living in would eventually become half of a bedroom in the massive remodel.
     
    I walked around the dug-up drive toward the side of the house, fished for the key in my backpack and opened the side door to the garage.
     
    The stale, pent-up heat slammed into me like an explosion. I left the door open in a feeble attempt to filter some of it out. The