Chapter 27
Twenty-Seven
Gramma Sharon and I spend the morning driving around. Then she takes me to a Mexican place the next town over where we split
crab nachos before walking around some of the kitschier stores that pull in most of their money during the summer months when
tourists flock to the eastern shore.
It should feel like I have a babysitter, but Gramma Sharon doesn’t treat me the way Marcus and Valencia do. Though Valencia
has shifted slightly since finding me about to run off. As if she isn’t constantly watching me like an overprotective mama
bear.
And when she returns home from work it’s like she never even discovered her hydrangeas were massacred. She asks Gramma Sharon
to stay for dinner—“Like I’d leave and cook for myself?”—then comes to give me a hug, which I gladly accept.
“We good?” she asks.
I nod and she leaves it at that. I don’t bother telling her about the unopened box of fertilizer.
“You see the weather this weekend?” Gramma Sharon asks as she sips bourbon after dinner. “Gonna be a beautiful one. We should
have a family barbecue. How’s Sunday?”
“We’re going to Mexico this weekend,” Marcus says from the kitchen sink, where he’s washing dishes.
“Bullshit.” Gramma Sharon turns her attention to me. “I doubt this one is allowed to leave the country. Do you even have a
passport?”
Not in Nate’s name and certainly not in my own.
“Then Sunday barbecue sounds great,” Marcus says with barely contained sarcasm. “What are you bringing, Sharon?”
She snorts. “You can handle this one. Or have it catered. I don’t care.”
Marcus shoots a glance at Valencia behind Gramma Sharon’s back that can only be interpreted as annoyance. He shuts off the
water and dries his hands on a dish towel. “Well, we won’t be having a cookout catered. But fine. We will provide food, service, drinks, and venue.”
“Great,” Gramma Sharon says, probably sensing the attitude in Marcus’s voice and digging in to show he isn’t bothering her.
“Then, as usual, I’ll provide the entertainment. Make Watergate salad, too!”
“There I’m drawing the line,” he says.
“What’s Watergate salad?” I ask.
“Something your grandmother brings every time we have a cookout,” Marcus says, sounding disgusted. “And if you want it, Sharon,
it’s on you to make it.”
“I made the pies last time!”
Marcus smirks as he sips his wine. “Aw shucks, no Watergate salad for Gramma Sharon.”
“I’ll make it for you, Gramma,” I say, wrapping my arm around her shoulder.
“See?” She leans up and kisses me on the cheek. “My grandchildren care about me.”
Marcus and Valencia laugh and Marcus looks over at me. “You look it up and then let me know how excited you are to make it.
If you promise to help her eat it so we aren’t stuck with the leftovers, I’ll buy the ingredients for you.”
“Deal,” I say without hesitation.
Marcus’s jaw drops and he speaks to me, again unprompted. “You didn’t even look it up!”
“I trust Gramma’s taste.”
Valencia grimaces. “Oh, honey, that’s a mistake.”
Even Gramma Sharon laughs at that.
Just then, Easton enters the kitchen, wearing a different outfit than he had on earlier. This time he’s in jeans and a button-down
with the sleeves rolled up. “What’s a mistake?”
“We’re having a barbecue on Sunday,” Marcus says. “Invite JT. Maybe if he’s stoned enough we can pawn off some Watergate salad
on him.”
Outside, Chardonnay starts barking. Probably at Miles.
“Can I invite a friend, too?” I ask.
“Sure, honey,” Valencia says with a smile. She doesn’t ask who I want to bring because she knows the only person I know is
Miles. Easton, though, gives me a confused look.
“What friends do you have?”
“Easton,” Valencia warns.
Even Marcus lightly bats his arm with the back of his hand. “Knock it off.”
Easton shrugs. “What? He’s been missing for years and he spends most of his time now with Gramma.”
“Miles,” I say, nodding in the direction of his house.
“Then ask him what his stupid dog is barking at.” Easton glances out the window.
“Probably lawn day tomorrow,” I say, giving no other context. I tell them I’ll be right back, and Valencia says okay without
asking me where I’m going or telling me when to get home.
Almost like she trusts me.
I go out the back door and, sure enough, Miles is in his backyard, headlamp on, pooper-scooper in hand. Chardonnay barks and
he quietly curses at her and tells her to knock it off. I watch for a few seconds before calling out.
“I really think that would be easier during the daytime.”
Miles startles, then shakes the pooper-scooper in my direction. “Stop doing that!”
“Stop scooping up Chardonnay’s poop at night and I will.” Chardonnay hops up on the fence for pets while Miles walks over
to me, head down so the light guides his way past any land mines. Once safely at the fence, he slides the headlamp to the
top of his head so it’s not pointed right at me.
“So I’ve been thinking about our last conversation.” He glances over my shoulder toward the house to make sure no one is sitting
on the deck, then when he sees the coast is clear, he bites his lip. He does that a lot when he’s thinking. “I think maybe
we should hold off a little longer before you make your grand escape.”
Oh, right. I forgot I told him I needed to get out of here ASAP.
Talking with Valencia last night did calm me.
Of course the hydrangea massacre brought my alert level back up again.
But being out with Gramma Sharon helped bring it right back down.
And I realized something while we were in one of those tchotchke shops looking at wooden ornaments and plastic knickknacks.
Whoever is doing all this isn’t trying to hurt me. They’re causing havoc and inconvenience. It’s a game to them. Maybe it’s
someone trying to scare me off, or it really could be one awful coincidence after another. Am I being delusional? Maybe. Even
Marcus is being less antagonistic despite everything. And Valencia genuinely seems to want to keep me safe. Like she’s keeping
her eye on me, but not smothering. Marcus wouldn’t try to hurt me while she’s being so protective.
Or maybe she told him about finding the duffel bag last night and now he’s realizing it’s a matter of time before I’m gone.
Either way, it changes things—I don’t feel like I’m in imminent danger anymore.
Like a truce. I’ll leave a note saying I was never Nate so he doesn’t need to pay back the life insurance payment, and he
won’t kill me to cover up his past murder. It’s win-win! Until Miles finally gets the police involved to tell them what we
found.
“No, I agree,” I say. Miles looks surprised but doesn’t ask me for information. “You were right, I was freaking out. If I
left now it would be suspicious.”
But I don’t tell him about Valencia and how her protective nature feels like a drug I need more of. How I like spending time
with Gramma Sharon. And, yes, even how I lay awake last night thinking about making this my real life.
I told you it was like a drug.
“I came out to ask if you’d like to come to a family barbecue this Sunday.”
His eyebrows shoot up and he nods. “Okay, good idea. I show up and casually ask a few questions about life insurance. Gauge
their reactions.”
I laugh. “Sure. But I meant for fun.”
Miles seems confused. “Pardon?”
“Not everything needs to be about the investigation. I mean, we can hang out. Take a break from the podcast.”
Miles’s confusion changes to surprise. “Oh. Ye—”
“Hey.”
We both jump and Miles’s headlamp slips back down to his forehead. As I step back, Easton holds up a hand, blocking the light
from his eyes. Glass bottles and cans clank against each other in the blue recycling bin he holds with his other hand.
“What is this, a family trait or something?” Miles asks, putting his hand to his heart.
Easton squints as he looks at me. “Gramma Sharon is leaving, Mom says to go say good night.”
“Okay, thanks.” I turn back to Miles. “So? You in?”
“Yes. What should I bring? Other than fucking bells for the two of you to wear.”
“Your appetite. I’ll talk to you later.”
I follow Easton but he leads me up the side of the house—past the hydrangeas—where Gramma Sharon is walking toward her car.
He sets the recycling bin down at the curb next to the trash cans. JT’s Jeep pulls up behind Gramma Sharon’s car and he rolls
down the window.
“Sharon! My life for you!”
She glares at the car as Easton hugs her goodbye, then climbs into the Jeep. JT does a three-point turn—narrowly missing Gramma
Sharon’s car—and speeds off.
Gramma Sharon turns to me. “I hope your friend is less obnoxious.”
I assure her that he is and kiss her on the cheek. She climbs into the car, telling me she’ll see me in the morning. I watch
her pull into the driveway, then back out—much more gracefully than JT—and wave goodbye.
When I shut the front door behind me, the living room to my right is dark. I’m surprised. It’s still early, and usually Valencia
and Marcus watch TV before going up to bed. I hear movement from the kitchen.
Marcus appears in the kitchen doorway as I lock the front door.
“Nate, can you come in here a second?”
Something about his tone unsettles me. And I don’t see or hear Valencia anywhere. My heart is pounding and I’m anxious as
I walk across the center hall toward the kitchen. It sounds like I’m about to be scolded again. Maybe he went up to the third
floor while I was out and noticed the weed was moved around. I thought I put the jar back the way I found it, but maybe not.
Marcus is sitting at the kitchen table when I enter. He motions to the chair across from him that’s already pulled out. “Sit
down.”
My stomach twists. This is giving me flashbacks to my parents trying to send me away to camp.
I sit.
And Marcus pulls the gun from under the table.