Chapter Fourteen
Gianna’s bedroom door opened abruptly, and the hulking man stood there, his eyes hard. “Avery,” he barked.
Gianna yelped and Avery jumped. She hated that she was scared, so she steeled her expression and looked him in the eye.
“What?”
“You need to call your mother and say anything you need to say so that she tells you it’s okay for you to spend the night. I don’t want any surprises. No parents showing up here, no more little brothers on the radio. Understand?”
“Did my mom call?”
“Some woman named Penny. Her mom”—he pointed to Gianna—“talked to her, said she’s your grandmother?”
He said it as an accusation, as if Rose had lied to him.
Avery nodded. “Yeah, she lives with us.”
Why hadn’t Bobby told her? He should have been home by now. But Avery didn’t say that. She didn’t want this guy to go out looking for him.
“Get up,” he said. “Now.”
She got to her feet slowly and he grabbed her arm, pulled her out of the room and down the hall to the kitchen.
Carl and Rose looked scared, tired, and very old, as if this ordeal had aged them a decade.
The stranger pointed to the kitchen phone mounted on the wall. “I’m going to remind you, Avery, that if you give any hint that there are any problems here, and your mom shows up? She’s a dead woman. Do you understand me?”
Avery’s stomach twisted, and she nodded. She went to the phone, was about to dial, when he grabbed her wrist. “Her cell phone. She’s up on Rock Creek Road, your grandmother said. What’s up there?”
“I—uh—I don’t know.”
“You’re lying.”
Avery really drew a blank. Rock Creek … Who lived there? Then it hit her. But if she told him the truth, he’d know her mother was a nurse and might make her come here and fix his friend Sam. Avery was torn. She wanted her mom, but she didn’t want her mom to be hurt.
“What?” the man demanded.
“A friend. The Suttons. They live up there,” she said. “I don’t know why she’s there, maybe she brought them some food or something? My grandma bakes a lot when there’s bad weather.”
He stared at her and she didn’t think he believed her, but he let go of her wrist.
Avery dialed her mother’s cell phone.
Three rings later, she answered. Tears burned behind Avery’s eyes. But she worked to keep her voice calm. The man had his face near hers, so he could hear both sides of the conversation. His eyes bored into her. She swallowed.
“Hi, Mom. It’s Avery.”
“You’re still at the Mendozas?”
“Yeah. They’d like me to spend the night. Mrs. Mendoza talked to Grandma, but Grandma said I have to ask you. Please? I’ve been helping Mr. Mendoza with the sheep and Gianna is having a difficult time right now.”
“I don’t like this.”
“I know, and I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”
“Send Bobby home right now. I can pick you up on my way back from Margery’s.”
The stranger grabbed her upper arm and squeezed.
“Really, Mom?” she said. “You don’t need me for anything, and Gianna needs me. She really does or I wouldn’t ask.”
“I don’t like feeling manipulated, Avery,” her mom said.
“I’m not, I swear.”
Silence. The man squeezed her so hard she yelped.
“What?” her mother asked.
“Sorry, I hit my elbow on the counter.”
“Fine,” her mom said with a sigh, and Avery could hear the tension in her voice. Her mom had a lot on her mind, and Avery wondered if there was something wrong with Margery and the baby. Because why else would her mom go up there now, when the roads were such a mess?
“Thank you!” She was about to hang up but her mom continued.
“But stay put. This storm is getting worse. Maybe this is for the best. Margery’s blood pressure is elevated, and I’m thinking of bringing her to the house so I can keep an eye on her tonight.
If Rock Creek floods, she won’t be able to get to the hospital if the baby comes early. I’ll give her your bed.”
“Okay,” she said. “I love you, Mom.”
“Love you, too, honey.”
She hung up.
“Who is Margery?” The man asked.
“A friend.”
“Why is your mother there? This Margery, she’s pregnant? Who is your mother?”
“Um, Ellen?”
“What does your mother do?” He raised his arm as if to hit her.
“She runs the house. The farm. My dad died last year and now my mom does everything. I don’t know what you want from me!” Her voice ended in a cry.
He stared at her, then he let her go. “Go back to your friend.”
Avery ran back down the hall and slammed the door shut.
The rain had been falling steadily for over an hour, soaking the tall grass in the field near where Tom sat in his truck, engine off, heat fogging the inside of the windshield.
He rubbed it with his sleeve so he could better see.
Across the road, the Coulters’ house stood half-shrouded behind a row of leaning oaks, the gravel driveway turning to mud under the rain.
Tom could barely make out the porch from where he sat, but he knew what he was looking for.
He sipped coffee from the thermos he had filled early this morning before he left his house. His shirt clung to the back of his neck from being caught in the rain earlier, and the north Texas humidity preventing him from drying.
His phone buzzed once. A text from his son: Can we play Ghost Recon tonight?
Tom exhaled through his nose, thumbed the screen but didn’t type a reply.
“Not if Mitchell keeps jerking me around out here,” he muttered.
He frowned. His kid was growing up too fast. His mom did her own thing and dated a lot, so Tommy spent most of the time at Tom’s house in Gainesville, where he also had friends in the neighborhood.
Tom wished he could be home more than he was, Tommy was fourteen.
He was a good kid, but soon he might not want to play video games with him anymore …
once he turned sixteen, got his license, and discovered that girls were a lot more fun and interesting than the Xbox.
He sent a belated response.
Whenever I get home, game on. But I might not be back until tomorrow. Mrs. Willis is bringing over dinner for you tonight, if you need anything let her know.
Tommy sent him a thumbs-up emoji and Tom pocketed his phone.
This job—it had started as just a side gig, going out with Clive as he sweet-talked—or strong-armed—landowners.
Sometimes, Tom had to do other things, things he didn’t particularly like, but he was paid well.
But then Mitchell had started talking about “leverage” and “opportunities,” and now Tom was spending his Friday afternoon sitting in a field like some cut-rate private eye, waiting for a couple old folks to leave their house so Mitchell could send in his goons to steal from them.
He didn’t like it. He didn’t like anything he had to do, but he did it anyway, because what choice did he have? This was his job. This is why he got paid the big bucks, he thought, anger rolling over him.
Tom had the sinking feeling that all the favors, all the errands, all the little things he’d done at Mitchell’s request—some legal, some not so much—were stacking up like a row of dominoes.
And when too many stood in a row, what happened?
They fell. And then where would Tom be? Would Mitchell hang him out to dry? To take the blame? Yep, yep he would.
Well, Mitchell Robinson would be very sorry. Because Tom knew things, many things that would get that arrogant jerk and his bratty daughter in hot water with the police … or the FBI. If Tom went down, they’d go down harder.
The sound of an engine snapped him to attention.
Across the road, the Coulters’ ten-year-old Ford pickup roared to life.
George Coulter was behind the wheel, his wife, Millie, beside him.
They both looked happy, but nervous. No surprise.
No one wanted to be out in this miserable weather, especially a couple old folks who were closing in on seventy.
The truck bumped its way down the driveway and turned south onto the road, heading toward Callisburg, where they’d cross over to Gainesville, then take the interstate down to the Dallas area. Their daughter lived in the suburbs.
Tom felt like shit. He’d helped trick them into thinking their youngest daughter wanted them to visit for the weekend.
They’d know something was up when they got there and their daughter wasn’t expecting them.
They’d know that someone had pretended to be her.
Then what would happen? Would they come home? Call the police?
But at least they had nearly two hours to get the contract before anyone was the wiser. Two hours was more than enough time.
Tom waited five minutes. Then another five. Rain tapped on the hood like impatient fingers.
He finally turned the key in the ignition and rolled slowly across the road, tires sliding on the wet gravel before finding traction.
The Coulter place looked more charming than tired when he was close up.
All the little details—curtains in the windows, trim neatly painted.
The plants that had decorated the porch when he was here last week with Clive to witness the signing of the contract were gone—likely moved into the house or barn before the storm hit.
He parked behind a rusted tractor, no longer a tool but a yard decoration, and climbed out.
The rain hadn’t let up. It soaked into his collar the second he stepped from the cab.
The air was thick and heavy around him as he moved around the house, checking windows, peeking inside.
Nothing. The place was still and empty. Even the chickens were quiet, having been put into their hutch early, the dark gray sky tricking them into believing it was dusk.
He stepped up onto the porch, staring at the door like it might open on its own.
He didn’t want to be here. He wanted to be home, on the couch, losing to his kid in a video game.
He took out his phone and dialed.
Mitchell picked up quickly.
“It’s clear,” Tom said. “They’re gone. You can send whoever you’re sending.”
“Good,” Mitchell said, and the line went dead.
Tom walked back to his truck, kicked the tire, swore when his toe came back throbbing. He climbed into the driver’s seat and hit the steering wheel hard with his fist.
Everything Mitchell Robinson was doing would only work if Ellen McKenna sold him two hundred acres that she was not going to sell. Tom knew it. Clive knew it. And Mitchell knew it, even though he lied to himself that he could convince her.
Time was running out, and Tom hoped—prayed—Mitchell didn’t do something stupid.
He drove off, glancing in his rearview mirror at the little farmhouse and barn. He turned toward the Verdacorp main office, on the edge of the Robinson property. He’d rather wait there alone than at the Robinson house until Mitchell called for him. As he would, sooner or later.
“This is all gonna come back and bite me in the ass,” he grumbled.