Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 145231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 581(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 581(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Damn. Just like I feared, that doesn’t tell me much.
I need to hear from another witness, just in case there’s something Mom overlooked.
“Where is she?” I growl.
“Evelyn? Oh my, probably at the airport by now. Archer took her after Salem left.”
Wretched timing.
She won’t be around to ask, though we’d probably know by now if she suddenly became deathly sick before her flight.
“What else did he drink? Water?” I demand.
“Just the orange juice. I’m sure of it. The same brand I had for breakfast, that fresh-squeezed stuff they sell down at the river market, and I’m fine.” She breathes roughly, her eyes closing as she shakes her head. “I just don’t get this. I need a moment, Patton. I just need some air, I need…”
She trails off. We both know she doesn’t have to say it.
She needs the same thing we all do—for Arlo to be okay.
For the millionth time, I hate this shit.
The front door slams hard enough to rattle the house then. I look up.
Footsteps come thumping down the hall. There’s only one person I know with that angry elephant walk.
Archer. He has this way of stomping around like he wants his feelings to reach the center of the earth.
“Goddamn,” he grumbles when he sees me in the kitchen. I open the fridge to find the orange juice, almost empty now. “Been a real bastard of a day. First Colt stayed up too late playing his Xbox after I told him twice to get the hell to bed. Then the traffic, taking Evelyn to the airport—Christ. I was stuck listening to her sob story for almost an hour.”
I’m barely listening, too busy sniffing the open juice carton.
Smells like orange. Everything seems normal.
But a second later, as I turn to him, his words sink in.
“What sob story, Arch?”
“Nothing, man. Don’t worry about it.” He folds his arms, deflecting like he shouldn’t have said anything.
My eyebrows snap up.
“Goddammit, Arch, this isn’t the time to play stupid.” I slam the carton on the counter so hard juice sprays out. My heart shouldn’t beat like this when it’s probably nothing. “What sob story?”
“I told her I wouldn’t say anything,” he grumbles.
“Funny,” I say, my voice heavy, “because I told her the same thing.”
He stops scowling and studies my face. “What? What are you talking—”
“Archer, what story?” The harshness in my voice surprises even me.
Then he sighs.
He tells me the same thing Evelyn told me—she’s neck-deep in debt and she can’t make the deal we offered her work—so he offered her a private loan. A hundred and fifty thousand in his case, softie that he is.
“Shit.” My gut clenches. A brutal possibility hits me like a brick. “She played us, Arch.”
“Evelyn Hibbing? Hell no. There’s no way she’d ever—” He stops, his face souring. He prides himself on being the kind of guy who doesn’t get played, especially not by a little old lady who’s been around for our whole lives.
I don’t wait for his response. I’m already texting Dex, asking if she told him the same thing.
Yeah. How’d you know? he replies a minute later. She pulled me aside when I came to pick up Junie, after they baked a cake.
My head’s about to pop right the fuck off.
I still don’t understand how it could be related to what’s happening to Arlo, but I know it reeks.
I dive into the trash can, pawing through it like a demented rat, the dread in my gut turning to solid lead.
Something isn’t right here.
“Hi, Archer,” Mom says as she comes back in. She attempts a weak smile. “Did Evelyn make her flight okay?”
I swing around to face her. “We need to do a sweep.”
“If there’s any poison in this house, it won’t be in the kitchen,” Mom says, frowning. Archer glances between us.
“Poison? What are you guys talking about?”
“Doesn’t matter,” I snap. “I don’t mean obvious poison, Mom. We need to look for what’s missing. Is there anything out of place around here?”
Archer catches on immediately, but instead of agreeing, he frowns. “Do we need to call the cops?”
Mom stares between us, bewildered.
“Please, Mom. Trust me, just have a look around,” I urge.
“What are you boys not telling me?” she demands.
If I tell her now, it’ll bowl her right over.
Evelyn Hibbing is her oldest friend.
Her oldest fucking friend who just played us like a fiddle.
“I promise there’s a reason,” I say. “Please, hurry.”
She nods and heads out of the room. Then Archer rounds on me.
“You want to tell me why the hell you’re upsetting Mom like that? So Evelyn squeezed us for some money before she heads to Miami—so what? And what’s this about poison? It’s frustrating, yeah”—his jaw clenches until his temples pop—“but it’s not like we can’t afford it. We can settle this bullshit later.”
The lead in my gut turns to ice now.
“Miami? What the fuck? She told me she was going home.”