As soon as his door closed, I took off, my headlights illuminating the pavement.
This was exactly what I got for trying to do the right thing: a headache forming in the base of my skull.
An hour later, I’d showered off the smell of woodsmoke and settled into bed with wet hair and my cell phone. My headache had eased, what with Brady Judd being clear across town. I figured a little doomscrolling would help me settle down.
I clicked off the news pretty quickly. Next, I checked a few of the travel blogs I followed but didn’t find any new posts.
Then my curiosity got the better of me, and I did this thing I do sometimes. I typed in “flights AVL to Reykjavik” in the search bar. A list of options unfolded, and I smiled softly. “Only two stops,” I mumbled to myself in surprise. I’d expected more.
I equated this silly little exercise to people house-hunting on Zillow for homes they’d never be able to afford. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t going anywhere. What was the harm in checking flights to New Zealand or Greece or Italy?
I released a wistful breath and almost put my phone away.
But then I decided to pull up my favorite social media app, Chatter. Thoughts of lava fields, black sand beaches, and the auroras were suddenly abandoned as my blood pressure started to climb.
Rising onto one elbow, I tapped the mention in my notifications from forty-two minutes ago. With the glow from my screen searing my retinas, I scanned the post from Judd’s Orchard, eyes widening.
Brady ran the social media account for Judd’s. I handled that side of things for Grandpappy’s. At least once a week, I found a teasing snipe on the orchard’s account. Luckily, I gave back as good as I got.
Shaking my head, I read ...
@JuddsFamilyOrchard: Beware, good people of Kirby Falls. There’s been a string of incidents where strange women try to force unsuspecting victims into their vehicles. Watch out for a bright yellow Jeep Wrangler. Look alive, @GrandpappysApples.
After years of pranks and premeditated torture, the score between us was too high to count. But if I only took today into consideration, it would more than likely stand at Brady Judd: 1 and MacKenzie Clark: 0.
two
BRADY
“You don’t actually believe that Mac had something to do with the vandalism on your property, do you?”
I stared in bewilderment at my best friend. “Abby, I have literally been explaining exactly why MacKenzie Clark is the culprit. Were you not listening to me?”
Abby sighed. “Yes, I was listening for the first twenty minutes. But honestly, I’ve been pretty checked out for the last five. You can’treallybelieve Mac would sneak over to the orchard in the middle of the night and paintball the side of the Apple House for you to find the following morning.”
“Yes!” I practically shouted, and several heads turned in our direction.
I’d texted my friend earlier to see if he wanted to grab a beer after work. With the day I’d had, I needed it. Plus, I’d wanted his advice, even if he was clearly misguided and too trusting.
We were sitting in the brand-new dining room of Abby’s latest restaurant while a cleaning crew put the finishing touches on the space. Flyers was a casual wing-and-burger-type place, and the grand opening was tomorrow. Abby had invited me here to have a beer since he was busy prepping for the celebration and finalizing menu items. He was feeding me dinner, so I guessed I couldn’t complain too much.
Earlier this morning, my siblings and I had stumbled across the vandalism to Judd’s Orchard’s main building. The mostly open-air Apple House welcomed tourists and patrons on days the farm was open to the public. It also housed our pre-picked produce, sales counter, apple-washing station, one small administrative office, and the equipment for pressing.
Now, though, the outside of the faded white building was speckled with red, yellow, and blue paint splotches.
“She left a calling card,” I reminded him and pulled out my phone to show him the pattern I’d detected.
Abby held up a hand to fend off the device I held up to his face. “I’ve seen the picture, and I’m sorry, man. I just don’t see a letterMin all that splattered mess.”
“She would definitely do something like this,” I argued. “You know she hates me.”
Abby narrowed his eyes and reached for his beer. “You know my feelings on this.”
I groaned and let my head fall back to stare at the ceiling ductwork. “And your theory has been noted and disregarded.”
He laughed—a sound that was part scoff and part audible eye roll. “You’re too close to the situation. You always have been.”
I returned my head to an upright position and met his amused gaze. “We are not in love with each other. Mac hates me, and I find her incredibly annoying.”
