Free Dead Girl Running (The New Order Book 1) by Ann M. Noser

more of this crap.”
    “It says
alternative
sources of protein.” She shrugs. “Whatever that means.”
    “You’ve been through that whole race bag, haven’t you?”
    “Of course. You didn’t tell me anything.”
    “That’s ‘cause I haven’t had a chance to read half that stuff, yet.”
    “Well, it was quiet here without you last night, so I had some time on my hands.” Mom brushes imaginary crumbs off her lap. “Want to go shopping with me tomorrow morning? The cupboards are bare. I slapped this dinner together with scraps.”
    “I can’t…” I pause, not sure she’ll be happy or upset about my news. “I’m getting a tour of Plant Production tomorrow.”
    “Really?” Mom smiles, and I realize at once that she’s gotten the wrong idea. “Are they considering you for a job?”
    “No.” I shake my head. “That’s not it. I met someone today who works there.”
    “Are they an intern like you?”
    “No, he’s older.” I avoid her penetrating gaze. “He’s a relative of Liam’s.”
    “Is Liam going, too?”
    “No.” The thought makes me smile. “He’s not interested in plants or dirt. He likes business.”
    Mom dabs her mouth with a cloth napkin. “Are you taking a tour with Liam’s uncle, then? That’s nice of him to take the time to do this.”
    “No. Franco’s his cousin.”
    Mom raises her eyebrows. I should’ve known I couldn’t con her.
    “How old is he?” she asks.
    I clear my throat. “Maybe twenty-five.” Give or take a few years.
    “Behave yourself then. Maybe you can make a good impression. It would be good for you to get out of—”
    “Don’t say it. You know I like my job. Stop worrying about me so much.”
    She frowns. “I’ll worry about you if I want to. You like that creepy job more than you should.”
    “It’s not creepy. It’s fascinating.” I stuff a big bite of lasagna into my mouth to stop myself from arguing the point any further. I’m tired of fighting about my job.

    That night I can’t sleep. Even exploring Franco’s book on plants doesn’t calm my mind. All I can do is think about the strange way he dresses and the odd things he said. My stomach flips topsy-turvy at the thought of spending time with him—alone—tomorrow. I really should get some rest. I’m running on empty after half my normal sleep last night, and that outdoor run today really took a lot out of me.
    But it’s no use. I roll to my side and fret some more. If I don’t sleep, that bike ride is
really
going to kill me. I shake my head. Positive thoughts. I need some positive thoughts here.
    Nope. Not coming up with any.
    My tired gaze lands on my father’s photo across the room. The moonlight hides his expression, and if I didn’t have the picture memorized, I couldn’t tell if he was happy or sad. The memory trunk below his face is shrouded in dark shadows, but it calls to me just the same.
    If I can’t sleep, I might as well do something.
    I throw off the sheets, flick on a light, then go sit cross-legged beside the trunk. With a creak, the lid opens. I line the items across the floor, one after the other. First to come out is Dad’s old sweater, then his favorite childhood books, and a picture of his parents. Sometimes, I think I have to check everything to make sure something else hasn’t gotten lost—or taken away, perhaps.
    With a longing sigh, I hold up the red dress I so loved as a child. Dad never got a chance to return it. He died a week after that summer concert. Then when The Suits went through our belongings, asking me and my mother a million questions, they found the dress. Dad had forgotten to give it back which was strange. He was usually more careful than that.
    When one of the Suits tried to confiscate it, Mom went ballistic, screaming and hitting him. “Leave her alone! You can’t take all her memories! How could you be so heartless?”
    My eyes water as her tearful cries echo in my ears. I hold the dress close to my heart, wishing it still