Chapter Three #4
“Porque llegaste … tan tarde?” The question came out on a wheeze. Cujo watched Drea’s shoulders slump in immediate defeat.
“Brody is Trent’s best friend, Harper’s fiancé. We were planning their engagement party.”
“So you can afford to go out, but all I get for entertainment is basic cable?”
“Mamá.” Drea winced. She studied the ground, like she wished it would open up and swallow her.
“This is my mom, Rosa,” she mumbled.
Rosa turned to him. “Or did you pay? Be careful. I know she’s trying to find some wealthy idiot she can marry. Get me out of her hair for good.”
“Mamá, por favor entrar,” Drea said, and he wished Rosa’d go inside, too.
Christ, what a fucking awful thing to accuse her own daughter of.
“I want an answer, Drea, why weren’t you working? You were late coming home last night, too. Was he the reason?” Rosa demanded.
“I had inventory, I told you that. And today I went in early to finish it off before my shift. Just let it go, Mom.”
So Drea hadn’t told her mom about Snake. Part of him wanted to blurt out the truth. Everything about this was wrong. The person he’d sparred with virtually every time he’d met her was not the woman currently staring down at her pretty orange toenails.
“Yes, well, you don’t have time for this.” Rosa stared imperiously down at the two of them.
Cujo draped his arm around Drea. Who spoke to their grown daughter like that? He’d seen his fair share of gold diggers, Trent’s ex, Yasmin, for one. No way was Drea one. Hell, the reason they caught Snake at the café was because she wouldn’t let him pay her six-bucks share of the Mexican bill.
“It was my fault, Rosa. I was late for our appointment.” He felt Drea tense against him.
Rosa glared at him, her color high.
He watched as she maneuvered her chair back inside. Drea made no effort to move away from him, and they stood there quietly for a moment. “Is it like this all the time?”
Without saying a word, Drea simply nodded.
Cujo pulled Drea tight against his shoulders, and for the briefest moment Drea let him.
* * *
Drea tugged out of Cujo’s embrace, unable to face him. Pity from him would crush her.
“I gotta go.” Even though she really didn’t want to. “She needs help getting into bed.” She finally looked at Cujo. She’d give anything for one of his quick-witted smart-alec remarks instead of the look of concern on his face.
“Wait, Drea. Put her to bed, come stay at my place. It’s safer.”
Drea looked around the neighborhood she’d spent her whole life in. “I have to be here in the morning to get her up. Thanks for the ride.” She turned and sprinted up the steps.
The cool, musty air choked her the moment she walked inside. Never had she been more embarrassed or mortified by her mom’s actions.
“Que demonios, Mamá? What was that about?” She folded her arms tight across her chest, more in an attempt to keep from throwing things than an act of defensiveness.
“Fancy truck. Nice clothes. Guys like him don’t stick around for girls like us.”
“Don’t lump Brody in with Dad. You don’t know the first thing about him.”
“I know he’ll fuck you over, then dump you. He’s a good-looking guy. He’s not going to want someone like you in the long term.”
“Why not? What’s so wrong with me, Mamá?”
Rosa shook her head, saying nothing. Drea turned and walked up the stairs.
“You aren’t going to help me get in to bed?” The shout echoed up the stairs, bouncing of the walls. She slammed the door so hard, the pictures on the walls rattled. Childish, perhaps, but if her mom wanted to know what it felt like to really be abandoned, she could start now.
Her purse went flying onto the bed, contents spilling everywhere. She flopped down onto the mattress facefirst. Her heart thudded heavily. The doctor had warned her that pain often caused anger, but her mom’s bitterness permeated every cell of her being.
Mortification be thy name. How could all that have happened in front of Cujo?
Drea groaned. How could she ever face him?
Her mom basically accused her of dating him so she could get married and escape this shit hole.
She looked at the damp patches in the ceiling where the roof above was missing a couple of tiles.
What kind of god-awful impression did he have of her now?
Marriage—for the love of all things holy—Marriage.
Gah. Dwelling on it wasn’t getting the work schedule done. She moved to her desk and turned on Frankentop, the name she gave to her decrepit old laptop. Half computer, half concrete slab. It had been José’s at one time.
An hour later, the schedule complete, she went to email it to everyone but the file wouldn’t send.
Goddamn, the internet was down again. She restarted her computer, checked connections, and crossed her fingers.
Had she paid the bill? She couldn’t remember and couldn’t face a call with their useless internet provider who was guaranteed to keep her on hold until midnight.
She wrote a sticky note and attached it to the screen. E-MAIL SCHEDULES.
Drea gathered the contents of her purse. Lipstick, mirror, brush, all the essentials. Something red and black caught her eye. Of course. The flash drive she had found in the laundry.
Perfecto.
Ripping the note off the laptop, she saved the file to the drive, and checked the drive to confirm it was there.
The folders on the drive all had really strange titles like “Collier County hydraulic fracturing suit” and whatever “Bartram’s scrub hairstreak” meant.
She opened the folder titled “Environmental assessment,” clicked on a file titled “Fracking in the Everglades—A disaster waiting to happen,” and started reading.
Drea studied the illustration at the top of the article.
A fracking well didn’t really look like she’d imagined.
A long straight cylinder of metal deep in the ground, with concrete poured around it.
It didn’t look like much, but there had to be a reason the TV stations were always reporting about activists being arrested.
You didn’t camp out for weeks at a time without reason.
Actually, she didn’t camp out at all, because of insects.
And nasty composting toilets. And lack of personal hygiene.
With a click, Drea opened another file. Then another. Confidential memos, reports, diagrams. While she desperately wanted to believe one of the part-timers had a boring-ass presentation to write, it was clear she was kidding herself, and Drea shivered at the realization.
This must be what Snake had come back to look for.
Drea thought about the woman’s exit route.
The staff room door was open, the laundry basket just inside.
It was anybody’s guess if the lid was open or not.
The woman could have easily thrown it in there as she tried to escape.
Drea closed her eyes for a second, visualizing the bodies running past her.
Carter would want to see this. But would she be in more danger if she gave it to him? Would Snake know she had gone to the police? The woman’s face flashed before her eyes. Drea couldn’t live with herself if the woman was never found.
The diagrams and reports faded into one another as she read, but there was one name that kept popping up: Mike MacArthur.
The next file was a letter. To Walter. No address or last name was included.
Somebody signing off “L.A.” wanted him to know they were trying to prove that a fracking permit application for the Everglades was approved using fraudulent information.
It mentioned Torstile Investments, the name of a shell company that owned shares in Cleffan Energy Corporation.
And that Mike McArthur, whoever he was, was heading north to prove the Florida governor was a shareholder.
She switched to the internet and entered “Cleffan”. Images of a large chrome and glass building, and an older man in a Stetson appeared.
Drea’s hands shook. What kind of unholy mess was she caught up in? Quickly she stood and hurried downstairs to double-check the window catches and doors.
The file definitely belonged to the woman, and Drea was filled with the terrifying reality that Snake would kill her if he found out she had it.