Total pages in book: 52
Estimated words: 51744 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 259(@200wpm)___ 207(@250wpm)___ 172(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51744 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 259(@200wpm)___ 207(@250wpm)___ 172(@300wpm)
“You think my father would be stupid enough to mark something Racehorse Hauling when he was using them to transport and illegally dispose of hazardous waste?”
“For God’s sake.” Shankle coughs again. “You’re probably right. You won’t know what you’re looking for. I’ll come do it myself.”
“You could have saved yourself ten minutes if you’d done that,” I say. “When should I tell Louisa to expect you?” I’ll be out on the range and like usual, not around to deal with house things. Like answering the front door.
“Sometime after noon,” he says. “Brazee is going to be pissed. He wants this stuff yesterday.”
“Then the two of you should have come over yesterday. Goodbye.”
After ending the call, I turn to leave the dreaded space when my phone, still in my hand, vibrates with a text.
My heart jumps. Maybe it’s Avery. But disappointment looms. It’s spam. I delete it quickly and then, instead of leaving as I planned, I take a look—a real look—at the room that was Jonathan Bridger’s lair.
And lair—a fierce or dangerous animal’s hideout—is definitely the right word. I always knew the bastard was evil, but I didn’t know how evil. How criminal.
“What secrets do you hold?” I ask out loud to the quiet room. With the door closed, the room is musty, but it’s as neat as a pin. Louisa’s doing.
For an instant, I actually expect the space—or my father’s ghost—to answer.
No answer comes, of course, and I stand tall. Inhale.
It’s just a room. Just a fucking room.
Getting Avery back has given me something.
Not courage, exactly, because I was never afraid to come in here. No, fear has never been my problem. I stopped being afraid of my father at age thirteen, when I grew taller than he was. By sixteen, my muscles were bigger than his. Many times I imagined pummeling him into a pulp, but one thing stopped me.
Avery. My love for Avery. She deserved better than an adolescent who used his fists to mete out justice. Even on an asshole parent who deserved it.
Nor did I stay away because of bad memories. I have the memories anyway—the image of my father sitting behind the grand oak desk, telling me what a disappointment I was, how much of a whore my mother was, how I was the reason she left.
But that’s still not why I steer clear of the office.
The reason is actually simple.
The room represents my father, represents everything I never want to be. Staying away became a habit after a while.
But today, something is different. I’m whole again. So much time passed that I forgot what being whole felt like. Avery took a piece of my heart when she disappeared, and now it’s back in place.
And this is just a room.
Simply a room.
Jonathan’s dead and buried. He’s not coming back.
Floor to ceiling bookshelves line the wall opposite the desk, divided by a gas fireplace. I’m not sure my father ever read a book, but he surrounded himself with them anyway. All the classics, leatherbound, on the right side of the fireplace. On the left are business books and journals, including agriculture and ranching references.
I take a closer look. This all belongs to me now—well, to my brothers and me—and maybe I can learn something. I peruse the titles until I come to one that makes me laugh out loud.
Journal of Business Ethics.
Ethics. Right. I’m supposed to believe my father ever cared about anything that’s in this journal.
I slide my fingers over the spine. Then, curiosity tugs at me and I pull the book off the shelf—
“What the f—”
Something clicks, and the bookshelf moves toward me, like a door.
I gape at the revealed space, my jaw dropped.
My father has a fucking secret room.
15
AVERY
* * *
“You get a match?” Jarvis asks.
I scan the computer screen, tapping on keys. “Just a minute. I need to get to the right place.”
I continue to move through screens until—
“Damn.” I smile, an invisible weight lifting from my shoulders. “I got something.”
“Jonathan or Chance?” For all of our investigating, it’s been one or the other. That’s what’s been swirling in my head. While I trust Chance, I still have–had–a nagging doubt because of the letter. He didn’t write it, but I’ve had fifteen years of thinking he did.
“Neither.” I send a silent thanks upward that I didn’t take that name from Hayes. I don’t need to bother with Grady’s hair sample now. And Chance is in the clear. Thank God!
“It’s some person named Eugene Markus Chubb,” I continue. “His DNA is on file for”—I scan through the information as quickly as I can—”looks like he was a suspect in an armed robbery outside of Helena about ten years ago, but his DNA cleared him.” I shake my head. “Too damned bad for him that it’s still on file because it’s a fucking match, Jarvis. A fucking match!”