Chapter 2
What was going on with Jenny? Drew had never heard his mom’s friend scared like that. And when had she put something in his secret hiding place? He’d forgotten he’d even shown it to her.
Drew grabbed the jeans he’d dropped to the floor a few hours ago and pulled them on, then tugged a T-shirt over his head.
As an afterthought, he slipped on a hoodie—even though it was mid-May, nights had been cool this week.
His grandfather said something about it being blackberry winter, whatever that was.
He had no idea what Jenny could’ve hidden, but it couldn’t be bigger than his backpack, so he grabbed it.
The house his grandparents had lived in until his dad bought it after Drew’s grandmother died was old, like nearly a hundred years old.
He walked lightly to his closet and knelt, pushing aside a pile of dirty shirts.
His aunt Tori had shown him the hiding place when he was a kid, and he’d never told anyone else about it except Jenny.
After his mom got sick, Jenny had practically moved in to take care of her, and after she died, Jenny had been there for him.
Not like his dad, who cared more about drinking than about how Drew felt.
Even now she came every couple of weeks to make sure he had clean clothes to wear to school.
Jenny understood him, and he’d told her a lot of things, like about the secret compartment and how he figured it had been used to hide money a long time ago. She’d thought it was cool.
Quietly, he opened his pocketknife and slid it between the boards, triggering the spring on the hidden compartment. His eyes rounded. “Whoa,” he muttered.
Inside the compartment was money.
Where had it come from? Duh. Jenny put it there, but where had she gotten so much money? Questions whirled through Drew’s mind. He bit his bottom lip, hesitating until he remembered she said to hurry. He stuffed the bundles in his backpack. He would ask her when he handed it over.
Drew picked up the last bundle and flipped through it. So many hundreds. Money that would go a long way toward the medical bills from his mom’s cancer. Drew figured that the stress of those bills was one reason his dad drank so much.
He glanced into the backpack. If Jenny was hiding this money . . . was it even legal? And there was so much here that Jenny probably wouldn’t even miss one bundle . . . Drew stared at the money in his hand a little longer.
It wasn’t his, no matter where it came from.
And what she’d done for his mom when she was dying .
. . he owed Jenny a debt he’d never be able to repay.
He stuffed the last bundle into the backpack.
The last thing he picked up was a small box with a string tied around it. The contents rattled when he shook it.
Hurry.
Drew laid the box on top of the money and zipped the bag, then checked the time again. A little after two. Time to go.
He eased down the stairs, hoping not to awaken his dad, but when he passed the den, he frowned. His dad’s snores usually raised the roof, but now only silence came from the room. Drew tiptoed into the den far enough to see that his dad’s recliner was empty.
No wonder it was so quiet. Drew checked his parents’ bedroom, not really expecting to find him—his dad hadn’t slept in the bedroom since Drew’s mom died. A sigh escaped his lips. He knew where he was. McKay’s, the local watering hole for drunks that didn’t close until two.
So much for his dad’s promise to quit drinking. Drew slammed out of the house, climbed into his pickup, and peeled out of the drive. He would be eighteen next year, and he wasn’t staying here one day past it. He was going to be like his aunt Tori—leave and never come back except for short visits.
Ten minutes later, he parked in front of the vacant house on Winslow. Drew had expected Jenny’s car to be in the drive. Where was she?
Maybe she’d parked somewhere else and walked over.
Drew grabbed the backpack and climbed out of his truck.
He jogged to the back door and entered the house, using the key she’d given him when she hired him to clean the windows.
Jenny had been looking after the house while the owners were out of the country and had hired him to do odd jobs like the windows and mowing the yard.
“Jenny, it’s me,” he called out. “You here?”
Silence answered him. He tried to phone her, but it went to voicemail. He hung up without leaving a message.
Drew paced the darkened kitchen, waiting for her to show.
Maybe he’d gotten it wrong—why would she ask to meet him here?
He had been sound asleep when she called.
Or maybe something happened to her car. He ran to his truck and hesitated.
Her house was only a few streets over. He could leave a note on his windshield and run over there.
That way if she came after he left, she’d see the note and wait.
When Drew reached Jenny’s house, he paused at the back door. The lights were out. It looked like she’d already left, except her car was still in the drive. Something weird was going on.
Drew tried the door. Locked. He used his key to unlock it, stepped inside, and turned on the light. She wasn’t in the kitchen.
“Jenny?” he called softly.
No answer. Maybe she was in the den—that was where she stayed most of the time. In the den, he flipped on the light switch, but nothing happened. Oh yeah, sometimes it didn’t work—his dad was supposed to fix it, but as usual he hadn’t gotten around to it.
Drew crossed the room to the lamp by the sofa. A coppery odor filled his nose, just like when he’d field-dressed a deer back in the winter.
Goosebumps raised on his arms. Something wasn’t right. He fumbled for the lamp switch, and light filled the room. Drew’s breath froze in his chest.
Jenny lay on the floor in front of the sliding doors, with blood pooling under her body.
No . . . Shaking his head, he squeezed his eyes shut. Maybe he was seeing things. Drew opened his eyes again, but nothing had changed. His gaze fastened on the gun beside her body, and his gut tightened.
His dad once had a Beretta just like that . . .
Drew knew his dad had a thing for Jenny but that she didn’t feel the same way. Had his dad—
He jerked his head toward the street at the sound of approaching sirens. Someone had called the cops. They would think he killed her. Or worse, if the gun was his dad’s, they would think he’d killed her.
Drew grabbed the gun and stuck it in his belt, then turned and bolted out the way he’d come. He sprinted through the same yards he’d crossed earlier. Had to get as far from the house as possible. When he reached the street his truck was parked on, he dashed across.
A horn blared, and he looked to his right. Oncoming lights flashed in his eyes. Tires screeched as the car skidded toward him. At the last second, he jumped sideways, and the car barely missed him. The driver lowered his window. “Are you crazy?”
He’d heard that voice before. Drew ducked his head and kept running. Have to get out of here. Have to find my dad. Ask him if the gun is his . . .
He reached his truck and jerked the door open, practically falling inside as he shed the backpack. His hand shook so hard, the key missed the ignition the first time. Once he was rolling, he pointed the truck toward home.
Someone had killed Jenny. Was it his dad? No. Even drunk, his dad could never do anything like that. But if the gun was his, the police would never believe he was innocent.
So who did it? Drew gripped the steering wheel. What was he going to do with the money in the backpack? And the gun? The questions chased through his head in a never-ending circle. He needed help.
Tori. He’d call his aunt—she solved crimes, she’d know what to do. Then he shook his head.
No way—Tori would make him take the money and the gun to the police.