Page 47 of Weston’s Treasure

“Why would someone follow me if my daughter was safe?”

“Didn’t say she was safe,” Nixon told him and I braced for the theatrics.

“I knew it. How much do you want? Name your price—”

“Dad!” I shouted. “Just meet Nixon at the sheriff’s station and I’ll explain everything when I see you. But please be careful, and whatever you do, when you meet him, try and be normal. Just once, do not embarrass me.”

“I embarrass you?” he whispered and pain sliced through me.

“That’s not what I meant, Dad,” I sighed. “But you tend to lean toward drama worthy of an Academy Award. These are my friends, they’re going out of their way to keep me safe, and I don’t want to repay that with you going all Colombo on them.”

“Fine. I’ll meet them at the sheriff's station.”

“Do you need directions?” I asked.

“No, I’ll find it.”

“Bye, Dad, see you soon.”

“If there is one hair on my daughter’s head that’s hurt, no one will have to worry about Colombo. I’ll go all Clint Eastwood and paint the town red and you can take that to the bank.”

My dad disconnected and I rolled my eyes.

“Something we should worry about?” Nixon asked with his lips twitching. “Him going all Clint Eastwood?”

“If he has a harpoon, possibly. But other than that I think the only thing you’re gonna have to worry about is his flair for crazy.”

“You okay?” Weston asked.

My eyes swung to him and he wasn’t smiling—unlike Nixon, he didn’t find anything funny about my dad calling the police then acting like he was living out a scene from the movie Taken. He looked concerned. And once again, I liked it. I liked that he cared and showed it. I liked that he was worried how my dad’s unexpected appearance would make me feel.

I liked all of that so much, I did what I always did when Weston asked me something. I answered with one hundred percent honesty.

“I don’t know.”

“Right.” He moved around the table, walked right to me, and pulled me into his arms. “Whatever happens, I have your back.”

“I know,” I mumbled against his chest.

And I did know. Weston would never let me swing.

17

Dale Coyle was fucking nuts.

Weston was thrilled Nixon had met him at the sheriff’s station with Holden and that he’d stayed behind with Silver. She’d tried her best to cover up how nervous she was her dad was in town. But she was open about how freaked she was someone had answered her phone. And Weston had to admit that was fucked.

The only good news was, whoever was playing this game was an amateur. They couldn’t find Silver, therefore they were willing to use whatever they could—even the police and media—to get her out of hiding.

While Nix and Holden had been gone, Silver warned the rest of them about her father. She’d looked embarrassed when she told them he was a little over-the-top—which was an understatement—and he tended to lean on the side of drama—again, understatement.

They’d decided to meet back at the house and it was a good thing they had. Dale was loud, he was drama, and it had taken a solid hour to get him to understand they were not in some fucked-up action adventure Hollywood movie. And the only reason he finally stopped accusing the team of kidnapping and brainwashing his daughter was because Silver had stopped sugar-coating what had happened to her and laid it out.

After that, the man had looked freaked and pissed. Then he looked impressed his daughter had singlehandedly figured out the C&D canal was being used to run drugs. Then he’d gone back to freaked.

And that brought them to now—Dale trying to convince Silver to go back to Florida with him, get on his boat, and sail off to parts unknown.

“Dad, that’s not gonna happen,” Silver told him after the fifth time Dale had asked her to leave with him.