Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 73664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
“That has yet to be determined,” Peterson replies.
I didn’t see the body, but from what I heard from those who did, the guy was in rough shape. He’d been there a while, stuck beneath the deep water of the creek until we broke up the dam and it receded.
“Doesn’t matter,” the detective continues. “As of right now, I’m ordering the three of you not to leave town until you hear otherwise. You need to be on hand for questioning. I hear you were in Seattle recently. Don’t leave again.”
Invisible insects bite at the back of my neck. Is this guy for real? “You’ve got a lot of nerve,” I say. “We were the ones out there breaking up that dam. Would we have done that if we knew we were going to unearth a guy we murdered? If not for us, he’d still be out there.”
“I’ve been doing this a long time.” Peterson sucks at his teeth and tucks a thumb into his belt. “I wouldn’t put anything past Jonathan Bridger’s progeny. I admit, learning he has two additional sons makes my job a lot easier. All I have to do is drive to this ranch to find the criminals.”
Yeah. He’s making it pretty fucking clear where this is going. I’m no small-town boy. I’m from New York, and I can smell a dirty cop a mile away. At least one who likes to cut corners and not follow the evidence.
“You know shit about us,” I mutter, my hands curling into fists.
Peterson shrugs. “Don’t have to.”
I see red. The guy’s already pinned this mess on us. “You fucking son of a—”
I lunge, but Chance pulls me back.
“Easy, Miles,” he says by my ear. “I don’t know what you’re used to in New York, but you can’t manhandle cops around here.”
Austin steps toward the detective, blocking me from him. “My brother’s right. This is insane. You know Miles and I had nothing to with this. Our only crime is that we were sired by Jonathan Bridger. And Chance? The big lug wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“You sure about that?”
A vein in Chance’s temple throbs, but he says nothing.
“Why the fuck would he kill someone on his own land?” I ask.
Peterson shifts his gaze from Chance to me. “You have enough of it. Lots of places to hide a body.”
I break free of Chance’s grasp, but instead of flying at Peterson and rearranging his face, I stomp past him and out to the garage next to the main house where my classic Harley Softail waits for me. I bought it from the classifieds in the local paper the other day. It’s in rough shape, but I know a good thing when I see it. Some TLC and she’ll be incredible, just like all my other projects.
If I don’t get the hell out of here, I’m not sure what I’ll do. So much for a beer and some delicious flautas. I can’t sit at that table and pretend Peterson’s not going to fuck us all over. One thing’s for sure. I will not go down for the murder of some poor SOB who somehow washed downstream onto Bridger land.
Peterson is out for blood. Bridger blood. He’s got the look, and I’m feeling that slimy sensation, like lizards are scrambling beneath my skin.
He’s definitely dirty, and he wants to take down Jonathan Bridger. Unlike the mayor, where his beef was personal, this is different. Worse. Since our dad’s six feet under, Peterson will settle for us instead. I’ve seen it in New York, but I didn’t expect to encounter it in Bayfield, Montana.
I crank the engine, listen to the lusty growling of the chrome pipes, kick the bike into gear, and scream out into the evening. I thought my time in Montana was going to be easy. Simple. Boring.
Fuck, was I wrong.