Ghost Writer (Raven Maxim Book 1)

Ghost Writer (Raven Maxim Book 1) by Tiana Laveen

Book: Ghost Writer (Raven Maxim Book 1) by Tiana Laveen Read Free Book Online
Authors: Tiana Laveen
Tags: Fiction
greeting, meeting, then eating or whatever the order of the day was no longer panned out as planned. It often turned out to be messy and awkward, like a botched hairstyle steeped with far too much gel. Her latest ventures into the online thing had also proved a bust as well. Slipping into the driver’s seat, she took off.
    It’s nice to meet a guy face to face…
    She couldn’t help but grin nice and wide as she made her way home, driving in the darkness with the moon riding shotgun along the northern sky. Tonight, she was going to sleep on a fantasy, one filled with velvety rich wine, old black and white movies, and hopefully, the beginning of a real nice friendship. Perhaps even a bit more…

CHAPTER FIVE
    It’s Time To Face the Music
    W alter Murphy’s, ‘A Fifth of Beethoven’ curled dusty musical notes amongst the flying debris. Sloan had found the classic disco and funk station locally broadcasted in Maxim to be bar none. He’d always had a thing for old, interesting items, and radios drew his attention in a special sort of way. Perhaps this was due to his mother, who would always lounge on her favorite chair in their small living room, listening to the tunes with a smile on her face. One of his cherished memories of when he was a young boy. Radios had thus become a slight obsession for him; he’d even collected a few that caught his eye at The Demolition Depot, a place full of assorted, unique relics back in East Harlem. As he bobbed his head to the music and rolled back a wayward sleeve on his white button-down shirt, he couldn’t help but side eye a strange crack in the wall.
    He’d been working for three days in Peter Jones’ old office, the room he’d avoided for quite some time, but that crack was grating on his nerves. It twisted and winded upward to the ceiling and sprawled outward like skinny, dark fingers. He jammed his hands back inside a bucket of soapy water. Toiling about on his knees, he gave the floors a deep clean, his muscles straining as he gave it all that he had. It wasn’t long, though, before he was jolted and pulled right back into another bout of disquiet.
    It was always uncomfortably cold in that part of the house, despite repeated calls to the three heating and cooling companies that would surely be more than happy to take his money, but they claimed everything was in good order. Maybe the damn windows were causing the draft. He’d had those checked, too, but another inspection might be warranted. One window in particular made him pause. Its large frame cattycorner to the massive fireplace, it was covered in decades of soot. One had to look through tiny scratches of clear glass pane to see outside of it, but he always experienced a sense of uneasiness when he’d try to peer out, see what lay ahead.
    My son got his ridiculous thoughts jammed in my head. All that boogeyman bullshit…
    He shoved the sponge back into the water, wrung it out real hard then proceeded to rub it in a circular motion into a rather stubborn patch of dirt, harsh stroke by harsh stroke. But then he noticed something rather peculiar with the floorboards. One was slightly lifted, as if someone had attempted to pry the thing off, then gave up mid-way into succeeding. Getting on his haunches, he sniffed to stop a runny nose from all of the dust and odors of various cleaning agents, then ran his forearm against his cheek to cure an itch.
    All the while, he stared at that floorboard so long and so hard, he suddenly realized the entire extended version of ‘Love to Love You Baby’ by Donna Summer had started and ended. Tossing the damn soiled, soppy rag down, he used both hands to pry the damn thing back the rest of the way. He grunted with the exertion, yet was so driven, so compelled to do this that even if he wanted to stop, he couldn’t. Several minutes later, his hard work paid off and beneath the floorboard, he found a book. Noting the blank, rich walnut cover with no printing on it, he carefully picked

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