Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 132892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 664(@200wpm)___ 532(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 664(@200wpm)___ 532(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
Still, I’d managed to meet not one but two sets of his Canadian contacts. That was progress.
Now all that remained was figuring out the Penticton fruit connection—we were still missing a major piece of the puzzle. Either that or Marsh really had gotten into the fruit-processing business, which made no damned sense no matter how you looked at it.
By the time I pulled up to the apartment building on Thursday afternoon, I was tired and hungry and more than a little frustrated to discover that Tinker didn’t seem to be home from Seattle yet—the shades were shut on the house and there were no signs of her car. The fact that I’d been hoping to see her like some dumbass kid frustrated me even more, for obvious reasons. The situation with the Nighthawks was a powder keg and the situation with Talia was even worse.
God only knew what fresh hell was ahead of us.
SATURDAY AFTERNOON
TINKER
“Lot of smoke in the air,” Dad said, frowning from the passenger seat. I’d managed to finish my production on Thursday and did my deliveries on Friday. Between all of that, I’d somehow found time to meet with my lawyer and make a few phone calls about Dad. We’d be seeing a specialist in a few weeks—one of the best in Seattle. Good thing, too. Dad had been more confused than I’d ever seen him these past couple days. Randi had done a hell of a good job keeping him out of trouble, but it’d been stressful for all of us.
“Wildfires,” I said. “It’s been a dry summer. Hopefully, the weather will turn and we’ll get some rain soon.”
“I need a bathroom break,” Randi announced from the backseat, sitting up. I glanced in the mirror at her. My nineteen-year-old shop assistant’s hair was plastered against the side of her face, and her mascara had smudged across her cheek. She’d fallen asleep not long after we left Seattle. “Where are we?”
“Just outside of Wenatchee,” I told her. “There’s some makeup wipes in my bag, in the side pocket. We’ll stop for gas in a few and you can clean up. You look like a raccoon.”
Randi nodded sleepily, and I heard her rummaging through the tote I’d packed for the trip. She’d been a trouper this week—we’d been gone five nights, which was more than she’d signed up for. Between the time she’d spent helping out with Dad and her time working in the kitchen with me, she’d get a real nice check out of this one. I’d probably throw in a bonus, too—I’d have been screwed without her.
“What’s with all the smoke?” she asked, her voice still fuzzy.
“Wildfires,” Dad told her. He seemed to be tracking now that we’d left the city, something that wasn’t lost on me. Hopefully, he’d do better once he was back in his home environment.
“Sheesh,” she murmured. “Hope they don’t burn too close to any towns.”
Spotting a gas station up ahead, I flipped on my turn signal and pulled up to the pumps.
“Hand me my wallet, will you?” I asked Randi. She passed it forward and I dug out my debit card. Dad stayed put in the car as she took off for the convenience store, following the pattern we’d established early on in the trip. I’d pump the gas, then park the car and bring Dad in with me. If things worked out, Randi would be done by then, and she’d help keep an eye on him while I took my own bathroom break. So far the system was working.
How much longer will you let this go on? Brandon’s voice whispered in my head. The man’s practically a vegetable. He’d confronted me again last night, full of fresh arguments now that my lawyer was turning up the heat.
I shook my head, rejecting the thought. Why the hell should I let Brandon’s bullshit infect me? He had no idea what Dad was capable of on his home turf. He’d snap right back once we reached the apartment building.
Even if he didn’t, he wasn’t a fucking vegetable.
No, my soon-to-be ex-husband would do better to suck it up and give my attorney the fucking financial information so we could divide up our assets, because this had dragged out long enough. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he had something to hide. That was crazy, though. Brandon’s family had more money than God—what did he need with our piddly shared savings accounts, anyway? I slammed the nozzle into the tank hard, feeling pissy. I leaned against the car as the gas started to flow, looking out across the hill. The sky was dim, even though it was only three in the afternoon.
“That’s a hell of a lot of smoke,” Dad muttered when I climbed back into the SUV. “Just like last summer, when Omak burned. Ugly business.”