Sunken Graves by Alan Lee (thriller book recommendations .txt) 📕

is evil and he’s breaking everything and why are you smiling?”

“Because Daisy. I have this absurd, idiotic, wild schoolboy crush on you and it’s so strong I could fly.”

“You do? Even after prison?”

“You’re even prettier after prison.”

Daisy came into his arms. Arms around his neck, pressing her mouth on his. She hit him hard enough that he had to hop backward on his right foot to steady. His bruised ribs protested.

A long kiss, long enough to dispel the accumulated hurt and worry of the dark night. It had been years for Jennings, but it was worth the wait, better than he hoped.

She spoke from the corner of her mouth. “A crush on me?”

“Enormous.”

“Like Teddy Roosevelt?”

“But better.”

She laughed, their lips touching, her on tiptoes. “Listen, soldier, I do things right. I don’t break the rules. So we aren’t kissing.”

“We aren’t.”

“This is a…reward. Not a kiss.”

“Reward for?” said Jennings.

“For not being mad I called the police. And for admitting the wild schoolboy crush.”

“You already knew.”

“A girl likes to hear it.”

“I’m a gentleman struggling to keep his mind pure, Daisy.”

She laughed. Kissed his bottom lip and said, “Good. It’s working on me.”

“But you have a fiancé.”

“I told Byron to move out. I told him I’d fallen for someone else, and he asked if it was you and I said yes and he said he didn’t blame me.”

“Atta boy, Byron. Have you fallen for me?”

“We’ll see,” she said, and her eyes said more. She dropped her hands to his shoulders, his arms. “You feel more muscular than you look and you already look…strong.”

The bell rang, an intrusion through the open door.

“I have to go,” she said.

“I need a shower.”

“Oh, hey. I heard through the grapevine that you’re suspended from teaching. Maybe because of prison?”

“Prison is frowned on, I’m sure.”

“Call the dean?” said Daisy.

“Soon.”

“I’ll come back later. Is that okay?”

“For more non-kissing? I’m taking a shower to encourage it,” said Jennings.

“Good. But I might even if you don’t.” She kissed him again then and hurried back to class.

Jennings stayed on his crutches several minutes, watching the open door, enjoying the lasting impression Daisy left on his lips.

Hathaway endured some laughter in the hall from students who’d seen her running after Daniel Jennings. Benji Lynch told her she had nice moves.

She would never run after a man. Not unless that man was her ideal, a man worth chasing, and her cheeks burned thinking about it.

With her remaining thirty-seconds, Hathaway popped into the office to check her mailbox. She had a note, the same red invitation in every other teacher’s box.

A festive reminder of the upcoming holiday gala, to be held at the home of Peter Lynch. Hers was personalized with black marker.

Your attendance is eagerly expected.

-Peter

45

Police Chief Gibbs had been working in Roanoke law enforcement over forty years, easily the longest tenured native to the courthouse, and he stalked through the security checkpoints without slowing. The deputies knew they should stop him but it was different to meet his glare.

He knocked on a door and entered without waiting for permission. Years of Jehovah-like authority inured one to pleasantries, like granting privacy. Behind a wide oaken desk, the Honorable Francis Gibbs took his ease in a Steelcase office chair, a recent indulgence. A copy of last month’s Judges’ Journal sat in his palms, open to recent law made in the world of social media, a constant source of irritation.

Francis marked his spot and stood. “Chief, come in.”

Gibbs already was in. He closed the door. “What the hell’s so important we can’t talk on the phone?”

“Some things should be discussed in person. Take a seat.”

“I’ll stand,” said Gibbs.

“I have tea. Would you like some?”

“God no. What do you want? I don’t have time to waste.” Gibbs’ fists were clenched.

As it often happened, the fists acted as a trigger for Francis. They took him back thirty-five years to the mountains in Craig County. Memories of Gibbs coming home with fists clenched. A young man then, Gibbs was full of anger and no healthy way to vent. Memories of Gibbs spending any extra dollar their little make-shift family had on bottom-shelf bourbon, and Francis getting revenge by quietly manipulating his brother toward rage. Of Peter scaring away Gibbs’ would-be girlfriends and being assaulted with a phonebook after. A phonebook or a Zippo lighter.

The painful remembrances were so vivid that he returned to his office to find it redolent with woodsmoke and alcohol and Gibbs glaring at him.

“I apologize, Chief. I’ll get to it. Do you know Josh Dixon?”

“Black attorney. Pissant little boy. Kid doesn’t understand how things work…” Gibbs’ face turned ashen and he lurched forward to grip the back of a chair. His other hand pressed hard against his hip, below the belt. “Christ.”

“You’re in pain?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Did you go to the doctor? I’ve been asking you to.” Francis was irked to discover some genuine concern in his heart.

“I went.”

“The prognosis?”

“Quack prescribed some pain meds,” said Gibbs.

“You’re not taking them, of course.”

“I am. Just forgot today.”

He was taking his medicine? That was alarming.

“Sit down, Chief.”

This time Gibbs acquiesced. Wincing and gasping.

“Do you have the prescription with you?”

“No.”

“I have Tylenol.”

“It’ll pass. It does this sometimes.” Gibbs leaned back in the chair to push harder. “Forget it, I’m fine. What about Dixon?”

Francis sat too. “He’s representing Daniel Jennings.”

“Good. Those jackasses deserve each other.”

“I overhead Dixon talking. Daniel knows about Peter’s field, Chief. He knows what’s buried there.”

Gibbs, already sweating, said, “Got’damn it, Peter.”

“My thoughts, precisely phrased.”

“How does Jennings know?”

“I have no idea. He was apprehended at Peter’s house, as you’re aware.”

“Peter should’ve killed him when he had the chance,” said Gibbs.

“From what I read in the report, it sounds like they both gave it a shot.”

Gibbs closed his eyes. “Peter. You fat idiot.”

“I told you we should have arrested him. And now it’s too late.”

“Maybe I don’t give a damn anymore.”

“You should. There’s no reason you should lose your reputation after a lifetime of work. Or your pension.”

The sharp pain in Gibbs’ pelvis was easing. He drew a long