Free A Reason to Kill by Jane A. Adams Page A

reaffirmed. ‘I dunno if she’ll be back tonight, but she’s promised to be home tomorrow after work. We gotta talk to someone; Karen will know what to do.’
    Paul nodded reluctantly but George could see the relief already dawning in his eyes. George had told Paul how it was Karen who had got them away from his dad, Karen who’d taken over when their mum had been put in hospital that last time. Karen who’d taken George and camped out in the front office of the local police station, refusing to move until they got the help they needed and then Karen who’d made sure they kept moving on and moving on until they were so far from their start point and from their dad that she felt safe enough to settle down.
    George gnawed on his lower lip and glanced once more at the game screen, wishing again that it was possible to put life on pause. He had something else on his mind, something that under other circumstances he’d have wanted so much to share with Paul.
    Yesterday, and then again today, he had glimpsed someone standing on the street as the bus had pulled away from school. The man had been bundled up against the rain and cold, but George was certain now that it had been his dad.

Eleven
    F riday night, and another lonely one for Mac. He had channel-surfed for a while, flicking between gardening programmes and quiz shows and a hospital drama that held his attention for ten minutes or so before the sight of so much fake blood reminded him of Mrs Freer and he abandoned it. Finally he switched off the set and wandered restlessly over to the window, twitched the curtain aside and peered out into the night.
    Outside the evening breeze had stiffened, beating the high tide into a frenzy and crashing waves against the sea wall. Mac watched the spray soaking the promenade and the little clouds scudding fast across a starry sky. The forecast for tomorrow had looked good but he guessed a turn in the weather was on its way.
    Irritably, he let the curtain fall. He seemed to have become obsessed with weather watching since moving here. Stupid really; he’d spent almost all of his adult life living close to the sea and it had never occurred to him until now that he might have a predilection for forecasting. Perhaps it was that this southern coast seemed so much more exposed, which in itself was a foolish thought. The east coast with which he was so familiar was every bit as weather-ridden and far more prone to storms.
    Knowing he’d be unable to settle, Mac wrapped himself against the cold and went out into the night. The strengthening wind battered him the moment he opened the door, grabbing at his coat and tugging at his well wound scarf. Mac wished he’d thought to get himself a hat. He’d resisted because, no matter what style he chose, he still managed to look as though he’d borrowed it as a joke. His hair fought hats, pushing them off, and his face, rather long and too heavy about the jaw, just looked even more unbalanced with something stuck to the top of his head. In his youth, people had described him as square jawed and the kindest had told him he had ‘strong features’. Mac knew what that meant: you can’t be handsome so settle for interesting. He lifted his gloved hand and examined his jaw line, worrying that ‘square’ would, when he got to Eden’s age, translate into jowls.
    Cold sea spray hitting him full force in the eyes encouraged him to turn off the promenade and he turned inland, unconsciously tracking back towards Newell Street and Peverill Lodge. He caught himself pausing outside Rina’s imposing house, noting that a light was on in Rina’s private sanctuary.
    For the briefest of moments he toyed with the idea of knocking on her door, but what should he say when she answered? What excuse could he give? It had been a long time, Mac reflected painfully, since he had simply and spontaneously called to see someone just because he wanted to. A