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My maternal instincts have kicked in with my brother, even if he’s 16 minutes older than I am. Ever since Momma died, I’ve taken on that role without trying.
“I’m fine, Cass,” he says.
“Look. I’m worried about Daddy, too. But you look like you’re going to pass out,” I insist.
“Dad’s going to be fine,” he says.
The catch at the back of my throat gives way to a stinging sensation as I remember that my father is all alone except for a lawyer to help him navigate out of these troubled waters.
But Herc might be right. Dex Treadway has been through plenty worse than this, and he’ll get everything straightened out. He’s a grown man with lots of connections and friends. Once he’s out of jail, someone will give him a place to stay, a warm bed.
“If you believe that, why do you look like the walking dead?” I ask.
“Because we just committed a federal crime, I’m pretty sure,” Herc explains.
“The trunk? The tennis balls? She said we could leave,” I reply.
He mutters unintelligibly, then says, “Tennis is your meal ticket.”
My twin brother turns to me and gives me that look that only twins understand. It’s a combination of extreme knowing mixed with a telepathic S.O.S.
There’s a slight arc of the eyebrow and a subtle nod.
I shift my shoulders forward and squirm around to fish out the tennis ball I shoved into my pocket, the one I took from the agent in the riskiest move of my life.
I look at the fuzzy neon sphere in my hand. It’s just like any other tennis ball—nothing significant or special about it. But then I turn it over in my hand a few times, and I see something odd.
Someone has sliced into it.
I look back at Herc. His eyes widen, and he looks down at the ball.
“No way,” I say.
Titus clears his throat. “Hey, wonder twins, what’s happening over there?”
I breathe, “Probably nothing, but….”
I trail off as my hand squeezes the ball, opening up the surgical slit to reveal that something has been folded and placed inside it.
Something green and papery.
Money.
“Uh…” I start.
“Let me see,” Herc says.
Holding my breath, I pull out the small wad of folded cash. It opens in my palm to reveal a small stack of hundred-dollar bills.
“Herc, what the fudge?!” I gasp.
Titus hoots. “Whoa, Nelly!”
“Shit,” Herc rasps.
My brain does quick math. “There’s got to be at least two hundred balls in that trunk.”
Herc nods at me solemnly. “Yes.”
