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"Poor son of a bitch."
Nodding his head in agreement, he began thinking he'd struck gold here. This shithole made money because they were selling drugs from it. He'd bet his left nut that this was Waylon's connection. As soon as he could, he'd get Rory looking into The Bullseye.
Picking up his scotch, Bull slapped him on the back once more. "Nice meeting ya, Ford."
He sauntered past the two men at the end of the bar, around a corner and disappeared from sight. Playing it cool, Ford finished his beer then hefted himself off his stool. With a slight wave to the bartender, he exited the bar pleased for the fresh air to fill his lungs. He felt like he needed a shower.
Climbing into his truck, he pulled away from the curb but made it a point to look behind the bar to see some men gathering at the back door, loading boxes into the back of a pickup truck.
Tapping his phone, he dialed up Rory.
"Yeah."
"I need you to do a bit of research on a dump called The Bullseye. I have a big hunch that's Waylon's connection in town for selling drugs. I may also need backup. They're expecting someone with some stuff in about an hour."
Chapter33
Her visit with Jolie was awesome but cut a bit short when her friend had to leave to pick up her daughter, Sally Ann, from dance lessons. Jolie offered to bring her along, but Megan asked to be dropped off at her house instead. She needed to get inside and see if she could find her grandma's necklace and she'd like to take the opportunity to gather a few more clothes.
"Ah, no. I'm not dropping you off there. Are you crazy? They'd look for you there for sure, Megan."
"I'll be quiet and sneak in and then out. I've just got to see it, Jolie."
"Didn't you say that Ford would take you there once the chief said it was okay?"
Her shoulders sank, she had said that.
"Fine. Will you take me to the Log Cabin then, so I can check in with Nila? I'll call Ford and tell him to pick me up there, and I promise, I'll stay in the back."
The nicest thing she'd learned was Jolie's husband, Derek, boarded up her front window and fixed her door. Now armed with a new key, she'd simply let herself in and stay close to the walls in case the floor wasn't safe. She also wanted to check out the basement and see if Waylon had been using her house for nefarious purposes.
A few minutes later, she stood at the back door of the Log Cabin, the aroma of freshly baked pies and bacon floating out to greet her made her stomach growl. Knowing full well she should do as she said she would, she turned instead to begin walking the three blocks to her house. She could stay out of sight by walking through the yards of her neighbors. In the summer when it was nice, there were days she'd make the walk, enjoying the quiet little town for what it was, a quiet little town. Today, for some reason it didn't feel that way.
Skittering across Joseph Street, she felt like everyone in town was watching her from behind their curtains. Her shoulders were stiff, and she felt like she was walking in slow motion, unable to make any time at all.
Hearing Mrs. Baxter yell from her porch, "Hey! Get off there."
She spun around to see two neighborhood kids jumping on a stump in her front yard, but it was enough of a heart starter that she quickened her pace. Finally reaching the yard directly behind hers, she scooted along the hedgerow, ducking down, so her head was below the top of the hedges. That probably didn't look suspicious at all, but she managed to make it to the front of her house, without anyone noticing her.
So here she stood on her sweet front porch, and it looked totally different than it had the last time she stood here admiring her little house. That same dreaded feeling hit her stomach as she looked at her home, blackened and taped with crime scene tape. Her front window was now a piece of plywood, the front door no longer hanging precariously on one hinge and a shiny new lock the only clean place on the house. It looked sad and unlivable. It also looked terribly small next to Ford's home. A flush of embarrassment raced through her body at what he must think about her little home. But she'd done the best she could, and her grandmother loved that house all the same. So did she. Now, though, after all they’d been through, she didn't feel safe here anymore. Marcus had most likely been able to get inside, while she had been in there no less, and now she wondered if Waylon had been inside too. Older houses often had older locks, which were easy to jimmy. And admittedly, when you didn't lock up your house, it was open for anyone to enter. She'd never do that again.
Blowing out a breath, she looked up and down both sides of the street. The investigation crew was nowhere in sight, and the street was empty. Settling the key into the new lock, she turned it to the right, and the door popped right open. Quickly stepping inside, she closed it behind her, turning the lock for good measure.
The stale stench of burnt paint and furniture, glues, and insulation stung her nose. This wasn't like a nice camp fire; it was gross. The blackened walls looked pitiful, and her eyes watered. She hadn't really allowed herself a good cry over all that she'd lost, but that could wait for the right moment. Honestly, her head struggled to wrap itself around everything that she'd been through because things kept happening before she could process them. Then Ford. He happened and changed her whole life. She'd been content to just live alone and serve Nila's food. Once in a while, she thought about buying the diner from her when she retired, but that seemed a way off. Now, that probably wouldn't settle her soul anymore. Ford showed her a new life. She felt beautiful in his arms, the way he looked at her. She felt needed and smart and funny when she made him laugh. She'd never missed it before because she'd never had it. In retrospect, her relationship with Waylon had been more brother/sister in a way.
Shaking her head to wake herself up, she inched her way toward her bedroom. Ford hadn't given her any indication that there'd be more for them once he found Bobby Ray and her house situation was taken care of. He had called her his woman, but that was joking around.
Her bedroom hadn't suffered as much as the living room, and she felt safer walking around in here. Though everything smelled of smoke, as she recalled from bringing her clothes to Ford's. Checking the bedside table where she kept her necklace, she looked under the table, under the bed, all around the room. Nothing. It made no sense.
Going into her closet, she began pulling clothing out she wanted to take with her, so she had more than just two pairs of jeans and two T-shirts. Remembering her flat iron, she made a mental note to stop in her bathroom to grab that and a few other feminine necessities. She'd need them in about a week. Searching around for one of her tote bags, she dug around in the back of the closet. The one thing her grandmother had done about five years before she died was to enlarge the tiny closet that had been in this room and made this lovely walk-in. Reaching up on a higher shelf, she found the bag she wanted. That's when she heard it.
The back door opened then closed. It always had that darn squeak in it. She froze, her heart racing so loud in her ears she couldn't hear anything else. She closed her eyes and focused on slowing her breathing. Careful not to make any noise, she inched her way toward the closet door and listened. Someone went into the basement, their feet thumping along on the old wooden steps. They weren't even trying to be quiet. Skirting the squeaky floorboard in front of the closet door, she inched her way across the floor. Gripping her tote bag tightly, she placed a hand over her stomach to keep it from rolling.
Now standing in front of the heat vent in her bedroom, she could hear the person in the basement, boxes sliding across the floor. A grunt sounded. The boxes must be heavy. She didn't have anything down there that was heavy and in a box. She didn't have much down there other than Christmas decorations and a few planters she hadn't used this year. No telling what condition any of that was in now. The back door opened and closed again, and her heart pounded. Someone else had entered the kitchen. She could still hear the person in the basement. Oh my God. Glancing toward the window, she didn't think she could climb out of it without making noise. Turning to look at the bedroom door, she thought about closing and locking it, but if someone was here to burn her damned house down again, she'd be trapped. Though she wouldn't care if she made noise then.
Slow, methodical footsteps sounded in the kitchen, someone walking around trying to be quiet, but she was so tuned in now she'd hear every peep. Grunting sounded from the basement again, then she heard him, "Christ, this is heavy."
For chrissake, that was Waylon's voice.
