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But it’s Marty who walks into the dining room a minute later with a loud yawn, his hair an uncombed mess.
“Awww, man, what’s this?” he asks. “I’m half an hour late and you guys wiped out breakfast?”
“There’s plenty left!” Shel chirps with relief, pointing to all the platters she covered with silver lids to keep the food warm after we passed them around the table. “Quit complaining and sit down.”
Marty laughs, slapping my shoulder as he walks past my chair.
“Hey, West. Good seeing you here. Just like old times, huh?”
I nod.
“We should all do this more often,” Thelma says. “As long as we’ve got our Shelly Bean, I think we’ll need a few more big breakfasts!”
I can’t help glancing at Shel, who doesn’t look my way.
I can tell she’s avoiding it, and I keep looking at her.
Finally, when I throw my seventh pancake on my plate, she looks up, grins, and pops a piece of sausage she fixed to go with them in her mouth.
“So, where’s Mr. Masshole off to so bright and early?” Marty asks, drenching his pancakes in syrupy caramel.
I frown, knowing who he’s referring to.
When no one answers, Marty adds, “He was backing out of the parking lot when I pulled in. Dude barely even waved to me. Jackass,” he mutters under his breath.
Thelma shoots him a disapproving look across the table.
“Now, son, he’s a paying guest and a nice enough fellow. Do mind your manners.”
He flashes her an apologetic look.
Across the table, Shel locks eyes with me. It’s like some wordless secret passing back and forth I’m struggling to decipher.
I glance at the door. The bottom of the stairway is visible, but just one corner. Hudson must have purposefully slithered out of sight as he left so Thelma wouldn’t call after him for breakfast.
Marty has a point. What lit such a fire under his ass that he couldn’t even stop for coffee?
What happened with Shelly last night after she stormed off?
I also notice how relaxed she seemed a minute ago, like a gorilla-sized worry was just lifted off her.
Is it because she’s afraid I’ll shoot my mouth off coming face-to-face with him again? Or because the Masshole as Marty calls him put his polished foot in his mouth with Shel?
I wonder.
While I’m thinking about that and chewing my weight in pancakes, my phone buzzes. I fumble it out of my pocket, planning on silencing it, but notice it’s Aunt Faye.
“Excuse me, guys,” I say, standing up. “I need to take this.”
I step away from the table and head into the kitchen as I flick the answer icon.
“Hello?”
“Weston! Oh, Weston.” She sounds breathless. “I know I locked the back door and double-checked the windows like I always do but—it’s gone. Gone. Oh, heavens, I knew I should have given it to you while I still had the chance.”
“Easy, Aunt Faye,” I say, hearing the panic in her voice. “Take a few deep breaths and then tell me what happened. What’s gone?”
“The gun!” she sputters, barely pausing to breathe. “The gun that won the West.”
