Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 130221 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 651(@200wpm)___ 521(@250wpm)___ 434(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130221 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 651(@200wpm)___ 521(@250wpm)___ 434(@300wpm)
She nods again.
She’s hanging in Weston because they’re the only friends she can find.
“Leave,” I tell her. “Quietly.”
I release her, slowly stepping away and watching her climb back out the French doors. She doesn’t look back as she hurriedly climbs into the tree, and I turn, grabbing the door handle and pulling open Dylan’s door.
But then Tommy’s scream hits my back. “He’s in the house!” she shouts.
I blink long and hard, resisting the urge to curse at a thirteen-year-old. Goddammit.
I move into the hallway, closing Dylan’s door behind me, and pause a moment. She might have a weapon. I peer over the railing, not seeing any sign of her, and look around at the doors on the top floor. My aunt and uncle’s room, James’s room, a spare room, bathrooms, and closets. The downstairs office and Jared and Tate’s bedroom would be the primary targets. They have the most valuables.
I step down the stairs, heel to toe, and keep my eyes and ears peeled.
I open my mouth, hesitating, but she knows I’m here. “So how did you know my cousin’s windows were the only ones without an alarm?” I call out in a loud voice. “Maybe you’ve been simmering on this job for a while?”
Did she come to Rivertown with the purpose of getting my wallet and keys? Or Dylan’s?
“Or maybe you just got lucky,” I add.
I stop at the bottom, taking in the dark kitchen to my left and turning toward the living room to my right. The TV is too big to carry, and they don’t collect antiques or art like Madoc and Fallon. I turn around the banister, looking down the hall toward the home office. That room is worth raiding, especially since Jared has a safe he’s never developed the patience to open, so there are things laying everywhere.
Like petty cash for the house and bank registers he brings home from the shop every night if he gets lazy and doesn’t take time to deposit them.
I step toward the office. “You could’ve robbed the race shop, you know?” I call out. “I would’ve let you steal anything.” The floor creaks under my feet, and I pause. “It’s insured and not worth the risk.”
I take another step and then another.
“But coming to our homes was a mistake, Rebel.” I approach the door. “Drop what you took. And leave.”
I reach out to take the handle, but footfalls hit the floor above me, and I hear the whine of Dylan’s door hinges.
Shit!
I bolt back into the foyer, and I grab hold of the banister, launching myself up the stairs three at a time.
I run back into Dylan’s room and see the girl Tommy was with climbing out the window and into the tree.
“Stop!” I yell.
She may not have been able to steal a lot, but she took something.
Chasing after her, I jump up, grabbing hold of the limb above and swinging my body, landing on the lower branch I climbed up on.
She swings around, I stop, and so does she, both of us watching each other.
I look down. A fall won’t kill us, but it could definitely break a leg.
“Drop what you took,” I bite out, taking a step.
She does the same, backing up slowly as I advance. Past the trunk and onto the limb leading over to my house. And my window.
I flex my jaw. “If you step one foot in my room…”
“I know,” she says, and I can’t see her smile, but I hear it. “I’ve heard about you.”
I’m sure she has. People love to talk shit, and everyone believes everything they hear.
But that part’s true. I don’t like people in my stuff.
Her boots, the right one with duct tape wrapped around the toe, move steadily over the limb, one behind the other. I don’t know if anyone other than family has ever been in this tree. At least not in the last thirty years or so.
“Dylan’s mom grew up in this house,” I tell her, stalling and keeping her attention on me as I tilt my head toward the window behind me. Then, I gesture to the one she’s moving toward. “Her dad grew up over there. This tree connected their bedrooms as kids.”
I step and so does she.
“You’ve heard the stories, right?” I stalk her. “The girl who fought back? Childhood best friends who became enemies who became lovers?” Jared and Tate stories still circulate around my old high school. Dylan’s getting really sick of it, poor girl feeling like she has to crowbar a car to prove whose kid she is. “Tate was kind of lonely as a child,” I tell her. “So was Jared. This tree was their bridge to each other when they needed a friend. When they needed the sadness to go away. When they needed a different view.”
A black bag hangs across her body, one of her hands on the strap, and the other holding the branch above her.