Chapter 3
Tucker
Three days have passed since Arthur Weggers’s ambush at Oscar’s, and I’m still no closer to knowing what the “right thing” is.
While I was hiding from Weggers, dodging him in parking lots and the grocery store, time was ticking down, and I forgot the clause in the will that said that we had only two years from the date of the original reading to fulfill our individual obligations.
Now I’m going to lose the family’s land because I can’t come up with some clever bullshit to feed Weggers about the right thing.
My grandfather must have known how much it would mess with my head to leave my job open-ended. He gave my brothers very specific tasks, and he turned my assignment into a mind game.
Fucker.
I’m imagining the exact nature of the Hell I hope he’s found when there’s a knock on my apartment door.
I stride to answer it.
Hanna stands in the hallway, bouncing a little on her toes. As soon as the door opens fully, she starts talking.
“You know that whole do the right thing thing? I think I know what it is. I need you to find me a bodyguard who can show up on super-short notice. And she needs to be a five-foot-four woman who can dispatch someone with the edge of her palm behind her back without anyone noticing.”
I stare at her, not understanding. “And you need this…why?”
“You know the wedding I was telling you about the other day? The one where weird shit keeps going wrong…?”
“Sabotage,” I mutter.
“It’s not sabotage,” she says, exasperated. “It’s garden-variety coincidental disasters.”
“You say coincidental disasters, I say sabotage.”
“Let’s agree to disagree. Anyway, the dad, the ex-cop, he has this bee in his bonnet because he’s worried about his daughter—”
“The bride?”
“Her sister, the one who flew in from Baltimore. I need a bodyguard for her. And five-foot-four woman who can dispatch someone with the edge of her palm behind her back was the description she gave me. Come on. I know you know someone who fits that bill. I need someone who can be here ASAP and work from now through next weekend.”
“But why a short woman? I know lots of people in private security with great karate chops—all genders, all heights.”
“Because she needs to fit in at the wedding. Like, you know, be Cousin Mavis or whatever. Just someone that no one will notice.”
I squint at her, still confused. “What about the karate chop? Why that?”
“It was just an example. Someone who could dispatch an intruder with one hand tied behind her back, and who could do it”—she sighs—“discreetly.”
“Why?”
“Why discreetly?”
“No—why does she need a bodyguard at all?”
“She’s a happiness influencer and some sadness influencer is mocking her online, and her dad is a psych profiler, and—”
“Wait, what’s a sadness influencer?”
“It’s not a real thing; it’s just this— Never mind. Does that matter? Her dad is a psych profiler, and he’s worried that this guy will show up to stalk her in real life—and maybe be a real psychopath.”
I raise my eyebrows. Happiness influencer. Sadness influencer. Psych profiler. I’m shaking my head at the absurdity. “You’re kidding me. Is your job ever easy?”
“Not since Five Rivers Weddings opened up shop,” she says with a heavy sigh.
Three years ago, Five Rivers bought a big Colonial revival house with a carriage house and transformed both into—we hate to admit it—very nice wedding venues.
They also have a few pretty outdoor spaces.
In short, they’re our most viable competitor in the space, and they’ve been winning a lot of business away from Hanna lately.
She’s been having to work even harder than usual to keep clients happy. It’s bumming us all out.
I hate the look on her face. I hate that I can’t fix everything for her. I hate that I might not be able to fix the Biggest Thing of All for her.
Hanna sighs. “Anyway, this person needs to get here ASAP and work from now through next weekend.”
“Short notice,” I observe, then loathe myself for it. I don’t need to make this harder than it is: I need to fix it.
Could this be it? Could this be the right thing? It’s so easy…make a few phone calls, find the right person, solve Hanna’s problem.
Do. The. Right. Thing.
“I know a few women who fit that description,” I say.
“Thank fuck,” Hanna says and pushes past me into the apartment.
I pull out my phone and make the first call. Stephanie Jones. I worked with her at the first agency I was recruited to. Probably a hair over five foot four, but definitely someone who could pull off generic wedding guest. Plus she’s fucking good at her job.
But Stephanie, unfortunately, is in Malaysia, bodyguarding an A-list actor. See also: fucking good at her job.
Su-a Martel—taller—is in the Pyrenees, doing professional development for mountain-rescue situations.
Inez Rivera is on indefinite leave after a situation last year with a chihuahua and a sewer drain.
I ask everyone if they know someone who knows someone, and I call all those people, too, but shit, apparently the first weekend in June is a busy time for bodyguards—weddings, music festivals, film debuts, CEOs announcing new AI models that can manage your social life and fuck your spouse when you have a headache.
Hanna and I stare at each other, flummoxed.
“What about an older guy?” I ask.
“Sure, yeah, that could work, if they could pretend to be Uncle Bernie or whatever—”
I reach for my phone again. But Trevor Wage is in the Philippines protecting a rich white guy from the consequences of his own actions, Alejandro Luis is on duty for a wildly popular steamy-romance author who pointed out that happily-ever-afters are for everyone and is now getting death threats, and Malik Drummer wishes he could help but is on vacation in Mallorca.
“And guys my age are out, right?” I ask. “Because I could ask Hux or one of the other guys from my old firm—”
She bites her lip. “She was clear she wants someone inconspicuous. Those guys all make the Terminator look like a wisp. None of them is going to pull off ‘Cousin Bernie.’ But at this point? I don’t think beggars can be choosers. I’ve got to offer her an option…she can always turn it down.”
Hux’s phone rings several times before he picks up. I outline the situation.
“Shit, man,” he says. “Wish I could help, but the guys and I have this big gig this weekend—doing security for a house party being thrown by a pop star who shall remain nameless.”
“Do you know anyone who could do it?” I ask.
He rattles off a few people. I’ve called them all already.
“Why can’t you do it?” he asks.
I’m not going to let myself think about the answer to that question. I blow out a breath. “You know why not.”
“What happened wasn’t your fucking fault, Tuck. You’ve got to get back out there. You loved your job.”
“Yeah, well, that was then.”
“And this is now, Tuck.”
I grunt, hang up the phone…and hang my head. “That’s it,” I say. “That’s everyone I know.”
When I lift my head, Hanna is staring at me.
“No,” I say.
“You could do it,” she says. She says it very gently, like she knows it’s fucking insane and there’s no fucking way, but also like she doesn’t feel like she has a choice.
But neither do I.
“I can’t.”
Her face falls, and it carves a pit into my stomach. The last time I saw her look like that, so disappointed, almost betrayed, was when I told her I was leaving Rush Creek—for good.
“Hanna,” I say.
“No,” she says, holding up a hand. “I get it. I one hundred percent get it. We’ll find something else that we can convince Weggers is the ‘right’ thing you can do for the will.
It just…for a second there, it seemed like the perfect solution to both our problems. But I’m sure we’ll figure it out.
I’m sure there’s someone else on planet Earth we can get as a bodyguard for this wedding on no notice, and I’m sure there’s some way you can ‘do the right thing’ in the next eleven days. ”
The thing is I know she means it. She doesn’t want me to do anything I don’t want to do.
She never has. She never tried to talk us into staying in Rush Creek; she never tried to guilt us into coming home.
When it was time to let us go, she let us go, and she’s welcomed us all back with open arms. She doesn’t say shit she doesn’t mean, and when she says that if I don’t want to do this, we’ll find another solution, I believe her.
But I love her. I want to help her. Plus, while I’m not actually worried that the happiness influencer is in danger from a troll with a dorky sense of humor, I actually am worried about Hanna.
Every time one of us has been on the hook for Granddad’s will, there’s been serious sabotage, or at least an attempt.
And it’s been escalating with each incident.
I would never forgive myself if something happened to Hanna’s business or, worse, to her.
I close my eyes. Tight. How bad can it be?
Today is Sunday. The wedding is Saturday.
I send my suits and tux to the dry cleaner, rush, and in the meantime, I put on a pair of black slacks and a gray T-shirt and spend my time leaning against a wall, feeling bored and secretly practicing meditation.
Then done and dusted. The will is behind us, the land is ours, and my brotherly duty is carried out.
I open my eyes.
“If Weggers accepts it as the right thing, I’ll do it.”