He frowned. His kid was growing up too fast. His mom did her own thing and dated a lot, so Tommy spent most of the time at Tom’s house in Gainesville, where he also had friends in the neighborhood. Tom wished he could be home more than he was, Tommy was fourteen. He was a good kid, but soon he might not want to play video games with him anymore… once he turned sixteen, got his license, and discovered that girls were a lot more fun and interesting than the Xbox.
He sent a belated response.
Whenever I get home, game on. But I might not be back untiltomorrow. Mrs. Willis is bringing over dinner for you tonight, if you need anything let her know.
Tommy sent him a thumbs-up emoji and Tom pocketed his phone.
This job—it had started as just a side gig, going out with Clive as he sweet-talked—or strong-armed—landowners. Sometimes, Tom had to do other things, things he didn’t particularly like, but he was paid well. But then Mitchell had started talking about “leverage” and “opportunities,” and now Tom was spending his Friday afternoon sitting in a field like some cut-rate private eye, waiting for a couple old folks to leave their house so Mitchell could send in his goons to steal from them.
He didn’t like it. He didn’t like anything he had to do, but he did it anyway, because what choice did he have? This was his job. This is why he got paid the big bucks, he thought, anger rolling over him.
Tom had the sinking feeling that all the favors, all the errands, all the little things he’d done at Mitchell’s request—some legal, some not so much—were stacking up like a row of dominoes. And when too many stood in a row, what happened? They fell. And then where would Tom be? Would Mitchell hang him out to dry? To take the blame? Yep, yep he would.
Well, Mitchell Robinson would beverysorry. Because Tom knew things, many things that would get that arrogant jerk and his bratty daughter in hot water with the police… or the FBI. If Tom went down, they’d go down harder.
The sound of an engine snapped him to attention. Across the road, the Coulters’ ten-year-old Ford pickup roared to life. George Coulter was behind the wheel, his wife, Millie, beside him. They both looked happy, but nervous. No surprise. No one wanted to be out in this miserable weather, especially a couple old folks who were closing in on seventy.
The truck bumped its way down the driveway and turned southonto the road, heading toward Callisburg, where they’d cross over to Gainesville, then take the interstate down to the Dallas area. Their daughter lived in the suburbs.
Tom felt like shit. He’d helped trick them into thinking their youngest daughter wanted them to visit for the weekend. They’d know something was up when they got there and their daughter wasn’t expecting them. They’d know that someone had pretended to be her. Then what would happen? Would they come home? Call the police?
But at least they had nearly two hours to get the contract before anyone was the wiser. Two hours was more than enough time.
Tom waited five minutes. Then another five. Rain tapped on the hood like impatient fingers.
He finally turned the key in the ignition and rolled slowly across the road, tires sliding on the wet gravel before finding traction. The Coulter place looked more charming than tired when he was close up. All the little details—curtains in the windows, trim neatly painted. The plants that had decorated the porch when he was here last week with Clive to witness the signing of the contract were gone—likely moved into the house or barn before the storm hit.
He parked behind a rusted tractor, no longer a tool but a yard decoration, and climbed out. The rain hadn’t let up. It soaked into his collar the second he stepped from the cab. The air was thick and heavy around him as he moved around the house, checking windows, peeking inside. Nothing. The place was still and empty. Even the chickens were quiet, having been put into their hutch early, the dark gray sky tricking them into believing it was dusk.
He stepped up onto the porch, staring at the door like it might open on its own.
He didn’t want to be here. He wanted to be home, on the couch, losing to his kid in a video game.
He took out his phone and dialed.
Mitchell picked up quickly.
“It’s clear,” Tom said. “They’re gone. You can send whoever you’re sending.”
“Good,” Mitchell said, and the line went dead.
Tom walked back to his truck, kicked the tire, swore when his toe came back throbbing. He climbed into the driver’s seat and hit the steering wheel hard with his fist.
Everything Mitchell Robinson was doing would only work if Ellen McKenna sold him two hundred acres that she was not going to sell. Tom knew it. Clive knew it. And Mitchell knew it, even though he lied to himself that he could convince her.
Time was running out, and Tom hoped—prayed—Mitchell didn’t do something stupid.
He drove off, glancing in his rearview mirror at the little farmhouse and barn. He turned toward the Verdacorp main office, on the edge of the Robinson property. He’d rather wait there alone than at the Robinson house until Mitchell called for him. As he would, sooner or later.
“This is all gonna come back and bite me in the ass,” he grumbled.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Avery glanced over at Gianna sitting in her rocking chair, a handmade quilt over her damaged legs. She’d always been a little jealous that Gianna had a television in her bedroom, but felt bad about that now. Gianna couldn’t do everything Avery could—she couldn’t run, could walk only with help, and was always in pain. She deserved to have the luxury of a television mounted above her dresser.
Now, she hoped to distract her friend from what was happening.
“Wanna watch something on TV?” she asked. She tried to keep her voice light, but it cracked slightly at the end.
