Cooked Goose

Cooked Goose by G. A. McKevett

Book: Cooked Goose by G. A. McKevett Read Free Book Online
Authors: G. A. McKevett
Joe, because he got away with it.
    Only time would tell if he could get away with murder, too.
    * * *
    7:17 P.M.
    As Margie Bloss drove her new BMW Roadster down Harrington Boulevard, heading for home, she briefly entertained the idea of turning the car north and just driving, driving, driving, until she hit San Francisco.
    She had never been to San Francisco, but she had seen the postcards. And, from what she’d heard, she was pretty sure she’d like it.
    Anywhere was better than her dad’s house. Mostly because he was in it. Sometimes.
    If there was one thing Margie Bloss hated—and she hated a lot of things about her parents—it was coming home to an empty house. And in her sixteen years, she had come home to find her house empty far more often than she had been greeted by a parent at the front door.
    For a few years, she and her mom had lived next door to her best friend, Amy.
    Amy’s mother was one of those stay-at-home types who baked cookies from scratch and sewed all the kids’ Halloween costumes—stuff like that. She had been in the kitchen, dishing up hot chocolate chippers from the oven when Amy and Margie had come home from school every afternoon. And she had let Margie hang out at their house until her mom got home from work. Even if it was pretty late. And it often was.
    But then, Amy’s mom could afford to stay at home. She was still married to Amy’s father. He hadn’t fooled around with other women and got his butt kicked out of the house, like Margie’s crummy dad.
    A few weeks ago, Margie’s mom had married Crummy Husband Number Three. Numero Tres and Margie had hated each other on sight, when Mom dragged him home from the bar that first night, and their relationship only deteriorated from there. Days before the wedding, he said, “I’ll be damned if I’m going to support some punk with pink hair and a ring through her nose. The kid cleans up her act, or she’s out!”
    So, Margie did the only thing she could under the circumstances—she dyed her hair orange and green, and got her tongue pierced, too.
    He had kicked her out. And Mom had let him.
    To hell with them both, she’d decided.
    Worse yet, they had shipped her off to her dad’s. Talk about going from bad to worse. Oh, sure, he had bought her the Roadster, and it was a pretty cool car.
    But it didn’t make up for years of coming home to an empty house and waiting, hour after hour, for your parent to arrive—a parent who, if they were honest, would admit they wished you weren’t around.
    As she pulled into the driveway and pushed the button on the remote garage-door opener, she didn’t know whether to hope her dad’s car would be inside or not.
    Her dad. Being alone. What a lousy choice.
    He was gone.
    Okay, fine. She’d blast out his stereo and smoke a joint right in the living room. He wouldn’t smell it when he did come home; he’d been smoking cigarettes for so long that his nose didn’t work.
    Maybe she’d shoot up some heroin, too, just to irk him, and invite some boys over for an orgy.
    Except that Margie didn’t do that sort of thing. No hard stuff. She might smoke some pot once in a blue moon. She might drink a little and let a boyfriend feel her up if she really, really liked him. She might yell at her folks to get what she wanted from time to time, but Margie liked to think that, basically, she was a lot better kid than they gave her credit for being.
    She had friends who were a lot worse.
    As she pulled her Roadster into the dark garage, she was careful not to hit the trash cans on her right or the water heater on the left. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, the car was pretty special to her, and she wanted to keep the paint and body perfect for as long as she could.
    When her father had given it to her, he’d made some smart-mouth remark about how she would probably wreck it the first month. She’d show him how wrong he was—how responsible she had become since she had turned sixteen. It was time the

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