All of the Voices, Bailey Bradford [e novels to read .TXT] 📗

the ignition. He just wished he knew who the hell he was so angry at, because right now, it seemed like the entire world deserved an ass kicking.

The sun was setting, turning the sky into an array of purples, oranges and yellows that Matt might have appreciated another time. Right now all it served to do was darken alleys and increase the intensity of Matt’s crappy mood. He drove down the main street of McKinton and studied each person he passed, wondering about the few people he spotted. Did they have someone to talk to, someone who’d make sure they were taken care of if they needed help?

Matt frowned. Why was he so worried about this all of a sudden? Sure, he felt awful for Mrs. Hawkins, and the two of them had grown close really fast, but still. It was almost like something poked at him, prodding him to think about the situation some of the other residents could be facing. The very situation—he realized with startling clarity—he could someday be facing himself.

“Maybe that’s it then,” Matt mumbled. “Which is stupid. I’m young, there’s no reason for me to believe I’ll end up alone when I’m old.” Except he might, because he’d been having some thoughts for a while now, thoughts that confused the hell out of him. The one person he could talk about those things with was gone before she’d been able to help him find a resolution for his internal disquiet.

The scent of fresh baked cookies wafted through the cruiser. Matt’s skin prickled at the familiar odor. It reminded him of Mrs. Hawkins. Instead of reigniting the sharp throb of pain he felt at her loss, the aroma comforted him, easing his dark mood.

It felt so good to let go of the anger that had been springing up inside him in random spates, Matt couldn’t bring himself to be freaked out. The mind played funny tricks on people, but at least this time, his was actually making him feel surrounded in the memories of Mrs. Hawkins.

Chapter Two

After another sleepless night, Matt crawled out of bed in something worse than a foul mood. Images of Mrs. Hawkins lying dead on her porch had tormented Matt the past two nights. There may have only been a little less than half an hour from when the call came in to the time he’d arrived, but during then, the poor woman had suffered a massive heart attack and died. She’d have been scared and hurting, probably even terrified of dying.

That more than anything ate away at Matt, the way his imagination kept filling in the last few moments of the widow’s life. He’d asked himself over and over if he’d hesitated, if he’d dawdled at all because Mrs. Hawkins put in calls for prowlers on a regular basis. Matt knew he’d rushed to the scene, had been prodded by the weird prescience that had crept over him, but still…had he hesitated at all? Was there one moment he’d lost that could have saved Mrs. Hawkins? Even the split second he’d stared in horrified shock at her abused body, had that cost her her life?

Matt grunted and stumbled to the bathroom, his bladder cramping severely enough that sweat broke out on his brow. He knew better than to drink like he had when he’d finally got home last night, but desperation for oblivion had had him refilling his shot glass against his better judgment.

Matt sniffed and scowled at the bitter scent of sweat and alcohol rolling off him as he pissed. He stank, his head felt like someone had loaded his skull down with sharp rocks, and his stomach was on the verge of turning itself inside out to ditch the alcohol, or whatever dregs of it were hanging around the abused gut.

A few ibuprofen would help his head, and toast would line his stomach to keep it from cramping from the pain pills, and hopefully the bread would also soak up whatever lingered in there that wanted to climb back out. As for the odor, that was what showers and soap were for.

After flushing the toilet, Matt washed his hands and brushed his teeth. He considered shaving, but the way his hands were shaking made that task too daunting just now. He started the shower, adjusting the water temperature until it was as hot as he thought he could stand, then turned the knob just a little more before stepping under the stinging spray. Matt groaned as the water burned his skin. Damn, it was too hot but he needed the burn to wake him up and clear his head.

By the time he’d finished washing, barely giving a thought to the scar on his stomach or how it got there, Matt was surprised he didn’t have second degree burns all over his body. However, his achy muscles were nicely relaxed, so that was worth potential skin grafts.

Right, dumbshit, it’s so much better to be sore until the ibuprofen kicks in. Matt wondered if he’d suffered brain damage when he’d been stabbed. Maybe the loss of blood had killed off a few brain cells he really could have used.

Too late now. Matt grabbed a towel from the bar and quickly dried off, giving his thick brown hair a tentative pat. If he rubbed at it like it needed, his head might just blow up.

With the towel wrapped around his hips, Matt swiped at the bathroom mirror, groaning when he got a good look at himself. Dark bags under his eyes really set off the blue of his irises, making them almost as pale as Severo’s green ones. Normally Matt just called his eye color blue—he was a guy, he didn’t give a shit about shades of blue other than dark, blue—which he figured was medium—and light. That was it, he didn’t need terms like cornflower or baby to describe the color, but now, looking at the pale eyes peering back at him, Matt wondered what shade of blue they’d be