Full Release by Marshall Thornton (classic books for 11 year olds txt) 📕

The yard was filled with junk: rusted patio furniture, a broken bicycle, building materials that should have been used to fix up the place long ago. A rotting wooden fence surrounded the property. I scanned the yard looking for a hiding place. Would I be safe back here? No, they’d search the yard eventually. I heard voices inside the house, more car doors slamming on the street. I couldn’t tell how many cars were down there now, but it was definitely more than one. I had to get out of there.

Hurrying to the back of the yard, I scrambled over the fence. The old fence broke under my weight, and I landed on my ass in the neighbor’s backyard. It took a moment to realize where I was. There was a great deal of squawking. Something smelled musty and old, like a rancid attic. To my right was a small shed-like structure too small for any human. To my left were a dozen flustered chickens. I’d landed in a chicken coop. I jumped up and ran across the patch of hard-packed dirt where the chickens were fed and jumped over the smaller fence used to keep the chickens in their area. As I got near the back of the Spanish-style house, a dog inside began barking. Then, unexpectedly, the chickens let out more flustered squawking -- just as they had when I fell over the fence.

I didn’t look back. I didn’t have time. But I knew someone was after me. I ran along side the house and found myself in the street. I had to make a decision fast. I could stay on the street until I figured out how to wind my way back to my car, or I could cut through people’s yards moving in the direction of my car.

Since it was clear that whoever was following me could get me in their sightlines if I stayed on the street, I decided to cut through yards. I ran three houses down and zipped into the yard of a contemporary ranch that didn’t have any fences to hop over and hopefully no chicken coops.

Dashing across the well-manicured lawn, I heard footsteps in the street behind me. My sense of direction was good. I was right above my car. What I’d forgotten was the steep, thirty-foot wall of sand and rock below me. I stopped at the end of the backyard and quickly tried to assess the safest way to get down to my car. Twenty feet to my left was a gully created by the last rainstorm. I decided that might be the best way down. I made for it.

Just as I began making my way down the gully, I was grabbed from behind. I spun around and there was Tripp. Without saying anything, he searched my eyes. Then he grabbed my hands and looked them over.

Immediately, I knew he was looking for scratches. He’d seen Sylvia’s body and knew that the scratches she’d made on her neck meant she’d also likely scratched her attacker. When he saw that there were no scratches on my hands, he looked up at me and said, “Get out of here. Fast.”

I squeezed his hand, then turned and scrambled down the gully to my car.

Chapter Twenty-One

The minute I pulled into my garage, I found the GPS on top of the box of kitchenware where I’d left it, bent over, and managed to get it stuck at the top of the wheel well where I’d found it. I knew Hanson and Tripp would be coming to talk to me. I didn’t want Hanson to know I knew about the GPS. Tripp would figure it out, obviously. But that didn’t matter. Somehow, miraculously, and for reasons I only partially understood, he believed me.

Tripp looked at my hands and saw that I couldn’t have killed Sylvia, yet he told me to leave the scene. He could have brought me back to his partner and explained why I wasn’t the killer, but he seemed not to want me anywhere near her. Why? Was she connected to the murders? That didn’t make sense. Especially if the killings were sex related. But what if they weren’t? Did Sylvia’s murder mean that Eddie’s death wasn’t sexual? Was there another reason for Eddie and Sylvia’s deaths?

Blackmail. It had crossed my mind before. It made sense. Eddie and Sylvia had too much money for what they were doing. So who were they blackmailing? One of Eddie’s clients? Was it the priest? If Hanson was Catholic, that could connect them. Is that why she was trying to railroad me? To protect her priest? God, I needed Eddie’s client list. I reminded myself to call Tiffany and find out how Cameron was doing on the password.

I’d been set up. That much was clear. The killer had forced Sylvia to call me, to get me over there. Then he’d killed her and called 911. He’d planned for the police to find me there. Hanson had expected to find me there. It was smart. Whatever Sylvia knew died with her, and implicating me in a second murder made it likely I’d be convicted of both. But I had an alibi. According to the GPS they’d attached to my car, I was home the whole time.

I decided for Tripp’s sake, and my own, to strengthen my alibi. As quickly as I could, I made a pitcher of Margaritas. Then guzzled down more than half the pitcher. I had other booze around, beer or vodka, which would have taken less prep, but I wouldn’t have been able to drink them as quickly as a cool, tart margarita. I’d nearly finished the entire blender full when they knocked on my door. I opened the door, to find Hanson and Tripp crowded together. I smiled at them like they were old friends. “Hey.”

“We’d like to ask you some questions,” Hanson said. “Can we come in?”

“I don’t think so.” I stood close to the screen