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Then my dad came out, and Ashton had done his job. Half his face was covered in bruises and swollen so I could barely recognize my father. I loved it. Thank you, Ashton. And bonus points because Shorty Easter was limping as he approached me. “Heya, little Molly bean.” He lifted his arms to hug me, but I turned my back and started for the parking lot.
I motioned for him to follow. “We’re out here.”
“We?”
I ignored him, walking to the car.
My dad followed, and he slowed, taking in the car. “Whose car is this?”
It was a battered old Buick. We’d found it in Pialto’s grandma’s garage. It was his grandfather’s, but rest his soul, he wasn’t using it since he was buried in New Jersey and had been for the last six years. His grandmother kept up the tags and insurance, and when Pialto pulled up to Easter Lanes with it, I didn’t ask. It was better not to know sometimes, though I didn’t think his grandmother knew it wasn’t sitting in her garage.
“It’s your ride.” I got in the front passenger seat. “Get in, Shorty.”
I was ignoring how my dad’s attention jumped to me. He got into the back seat, moving at a sedate pace. “Peter, right?”
Pialto shot me a look. My dad had been introduced to him eleven times over the last two years. He never used the same P name. By now, Pialto replied, deadpan, “Hi, Mr. Shorty.”
My dad grunted, and then we were off.
I was just now realizing I could’ve taken the train, paid his bail, and had our conversation on the street. We could’ve parted our ways from there. This, the whole car thing, was overkill. I’d been acting on the basis that he was in prison and we needed to drive all the way there to get him.
Yeah.
Totally not planning ahead.
The seat squeaked as my dad leaned forward, his hand settling on the barrier between us. “You can drop me off—”
“We’re going to Easter Lanes. You can leave from there.”
“But—”
I raised my voice over my dad’s. “Easter Lanes, Peter.”
Pialto suppressed a laugh as he hit the turn signal and merged into the other lane. Three taxis whizzed past us. One was laying on his horn, his fist in the air. None of us reacted.
It was silent in our vehicle the whole way. Silent and tense, or maybe that was just me because I was having daydreams about me and my favorite shovel.
When we got to Easter Lanes, my dad got out first.
Pialto touched my hand. “I need to take the car back, but, you know.” He motioned to my dad, who was now trying to get into Easter Lanes even though it was before opening, so the door would be locked.
We both watched him.
He tried the door. It was locked. He tried again. It was still locked. A third time, but this time, he cursed and raked a hand over his head, calling over his shoulder, “Something’s wrong with your door!”
I was going to kill him. Full out. Full blast. Just take that shovel, grip it with two hands, hold it like the bat I never learned to use in softball because I didn’t play softball, but I was going to do it, and then, whack! One good swing and his head would be the ball. I’d send it sailing, clear off his body and into the infield. Home run for first-degree murder.
I knew people. I’d be okay on the inside.
“Girl.” Pialto’s hand squeezed mine. “Go in there. Fix yourself a drink. Ask Justin’s and Kelly’s spirits to come through for you. You do what you need to do, whatever Ashton asked you to do, even though I know you don’t want to do it. You totally got that.”
Right. I squeezed Pialto’s hand back. “Thanks, Peter.”
He snorted, winking at me. “Of course, sweetie. Me and Sophie, we got your back. Always.”
That’s right. He was my family, not that douchebag now banging on my door and yelling inside.
I got this. I could do this. Totally.
I got out, and Pialto sped off.
My dad turned to me, pointing inside. “You should do a scanner so I can just use my thumb and voilà, your door opens for me. Way easier to get in then.”
Murder. Yes. I’d start formulating my plan for how to get away with it as soon as I unlocked the door.
I opened the door, and my dad brushed past me, heading to the bar and dropping his bag on one of the stools. “You have no idea how good it feels to be inside friendly walls.” He was heading for the bathroom, shaking his finger in the air as he went. “No idea, honey. Then again, you’ll never need to be worried about going to jail. It’s not like you’d do anything to get thrown in there. Hold on. I want to wash up.”
