A Cut Above by Ginny Aiken

Author:Ginny Aiken
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: ebook, book
ISBN: 9780800732295
Publisher: Revell
Published: 2008-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

1000

As easy as it was to fall asleep earlier in the afternoon, no matter how I try, I can’t get my eyelids to stick shut now. I fluff my bedding, punch my pillows, wiggle, toss, turn. Do it all again.

Nothing.

And praying? Well, even that’s become tough. My mind has discovered a heretofore unknown case of ADD or something like that. I can’t focus on anything, not even my love for the Lord. Too many stray rags of thought keep popping into my head.

I can’t help worrying about Aunt Weeby. That phone call . . . it frightened her. And my aunt is known for her . . . umm . . . insane reactions to fright. The last thing I want is for her to hop the next flight to Colombia and come look for me—us. I wouldn’t be able to stand it if anything were to happen to her. Especially if it happened because she was trying to help me.

“Lord . . . ? Help us, please, so she doesn’t think she has to.”

I flop over onto my other side. I still can’t believe I’m locked up in a room at a hacienda somewhere in Colombia. I mean, these things only happen in movies or in books. Not to plain, old gemologists from Louisville, Kentucky. Like me. Right?

Ah . . . well, I guess I’d better change that idea. These things didn’t used to happen to me. Not before I came to work for Miss Mona, that is. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I don’t blame Miss Mona for any of the wacky things that have happened this last year. Not really. True, she does get these ideas . . . but it’s not as if she goes out of her way to come up with stuff that leads to danger or disaster.

That’s just what happens while I carry out her plans.

Trust me. I’m not the one with the ideas.

And when I get home? Neither will she idea-ize (yep, new word!) again.

I’ll make sure of it.

From now on, vendors will come to the S.T.U.D. to vend. I roll over onto my back. Stare up at the ceiling. Count the seconds oozing by.

Aaack! I quit.

In a single, dramatic move, I toss off the lightweight sheet, totally frustrated with my inability to zonk out, and with a half twist, swing my feet over the bed and vault upright on to the floor. What good is it to be jailed in a luxe cell like this one, if you can’t even veg out for real? I mean, sawing logs and z’s and doing like Rip Van Winkle isn’t that tough, is it? It should happen just because it’s nighttime, I’m drained from what’s happened, and I want to sleep.

It’s understandable for my nerves to be on edge. There’s the memory of those machine guns prancing in the back of my head. And I’m being held against my will. But understanding isn’t accepting.

I start to pace the room, and come face to face with the shuttered window.

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