The Girl Buried in the Woods (Detective Matt Jones #3) by Robert Ellis Read Online (FREE)
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We shall find peace. We shall hear angels, we shall see the sky sparkling with diamonds.
NEWS BRIEF (Los Angeles Times Staff Writer)
Detective Matthew Trevor Jones, the LAPD homicide detective out of the Hollywood Division who appeared to have nine lives, is deceased. The young detective was gunned down by an unknown assailant atop Mount Hollywood. On loan to the FBI from Los Angeles, Jones’s body was fished out of the frigid waters in Long Island Sound off Greenwich, Connecticut during a Nor’easter this past December . . .
Matt could almost see the words in the newspaper as he rolled over in bed and tried to shake what had become yet another nightmare. Another lost night in a long line of lost nights. Flashbacks. Night sweats. Ghouls and ghosts visiting his bed. The Grim Reaper checking on him every so often to see if he was ready, or was the word done. And what about the pain in his chest and shoulder from the four gunshot wounds that were real. The pain that his doctor had said would someday disappear. Someday fade and be nothing more than a memory.
Matt rolled his head across the pillow. Someday he’d forget the four muzzle flashes that had been pointed directly his way. Someday that spike of fear, that jolt of jolts, would take flight like a flock of blackbirds heading for cooler air in the north sky. And with that flock of birds, the sounds of the shots, one after another, the unreal feeling that he’d been hit, and hit hard, maybe even hit forever—maybe those blackbirds could take all of that with them as well.
Someday all those memories might vanish in a hard wind.
Someday his world would become bright and steady, and he could live life the same way normal people live their lives. The people sunning themselves on Venice Beach. Walking along the waterline barefoot. Laughing and talking and rollerblading up and down the bike path. Eating at the cafés with old friends or feeling that certain promise and joy in meeting someone new.
Happiness wasn’t an illusion, was it? Happiness was attainable, even for him, right?
He heard something in his dream. It wasn’t an answer, or even the Grim Reaper standing over his bed. It was an irritating tapping sound in the darkness. It seemed so out of place. So annoying.
He let it go and rolled over again, seeking drier sheets and hoping for one last cool spot in his bed. As he settled in, the words came back, and he realized that he was reading his own obituary. Dreaming about it as he tried to swim through those ice-cold December waters in Connecticut and make it back to shore. It didn’t look like he was going to pull it off. His arms and legs had gone numb almost instantly. The water was as black as the sky, the stormy chop playing with him. He could feel the undertow reaching out for his ankles and feet and trying to pull him to the bottom. He thought he could see a ship burning in the distance; thought he could hear the deafening sound of an explosion as he coughed and choked on the salt water, gasping for air and reaching for—