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“I saw scratch marks again. She claims they were from a fall on the softball field, but no one falls on their biceps and gets tracks that look like they were made from finger nails.”
“Fuck,” I curse, anger suffusing me. “If I could go over there and pummel that woman myself, I would.”
August’s mother is, to put it nicely, a complete narcissist. For a more descriptive picture: she has a penchant for toxic boyfriends who put her daughter in harm’s way daily, and seems to blame August for this for some delusional reason. That is, if she’s not putting hands on her.
“You know we can’t. She has to do it herself.”
Alana is right. Dad has sent child services there twice over the years, until August begged him not to call on her mother anymore. Claims the system is worse than living with her biological parent. I wouldn’t know much about that, but I don’t think she’s wrong. If things get really bad, she usually stays with Alana for a few days or weeks.
“Let me know if you see anything else.” I nod at my sister, who gives me a thumbs-up and disappears.
The night winds down, and I don’t know why the hell I’m still sitting at my desk. I’m usually gone just as the dinner rush starts up, since I’ve spent all day going over the books. Tonight, I was supposed to stay until then, but Mom ended up coming in earlier, and they didn’t even need me.
Part of me doesn’t want to drive out to our land on the edge of Hope Crest. I don’t want to feel the urge to check on the animalsshecan’t possibly know how to take care of.
I don’t want to talk to her again, because all I seem to be able to focus on is if I’ll talk to her again.
“Were you going to tell Dad about Cassandra Mauer being back at that shithole?” Liam, my older brother, leans against the doorframe of my office, the next horseman of the apocalypse, to point out crappy facts today.
“I didn’t know she was back.” I don’t meet his eyes because this motherfucker can read thoughts.
“Bullshit. You think I don’t know what goes down on my land? You think I haven’t watched you traipse across the fields to go feed those animals? I watched as you came back last night looking like there was a stick up your ass.”
“Must have borrowed it from you,” I grumble.
My older brother is the quintessential definition of that title; bossy with a superiority complex and secrets held tight to the vest that he trusts none of us with. Liam is the lone wolf of the group, still around but not working in the restaurant. He runs our family farm, the one that supplies some of the ingredients here.
People come from far and wide to taste our sauce, which is homegrown from the roots right to the stove. Which is why, about three years ago, we started bottling the stuff and selling it, and has made all of us a nice chunk of change, especially Liam. He had been hard to convince to go the corporate grocery route, so Dad sweetened the deal and promised him twenty percent of the sales while us other siblings got ten. Hope Sauce took off when this random pop culture social media account shared how amazing it is. Ever since, we’ve been doing seven-figure sales of the retail sauce alone.
“What does she want?” Liam ignores my question, going with his typical growly tone.
I huff out a sigh. “To close out Butch’s estate. Settle his will. I’m not sure if she’s buried him, but I’m sure that’s on the list, and sell the house.”
That perks Liam’s interest, even though his expression doesn’t change save for an eyebrow lift. “She wants to sell the four acres?”
My head bobs. “She does.”
“So when were you going to tell Dad?”
“Tell me what?”
Dad appears behind my brother, almost a spitting image of him with twenty-five years added on. Where I have my mother’s light eyes, Liam’s are nearly black like Dad’s, and they both have chestnut-colored hair instead of my jet-black.
Liam shoots me a look before moving aside to let Dad into the conversation, and I slightly shake my head.
“Cassandra Mauer is back in Butch’s house.” Liam spills the beans.
I throw my hands up. “You always have to start shit, huh?”
“Hey, no fighting. I’m too tired. Dinner service was a madhouse.” Dad wipes a hand over his brow, and my gut lurches.
Dad isn’t old, necessarily, but he’s been working on his feet for nearly forty years in a high-stress environment. Our youngest brother, Evan, is supposed to come home to take over the restaurant, but last I heard from him, he’d still been employed at the two Michelin-starred San Francisco restaurants he apprenticed at.
“You okay? You want to sit down?” I rise, going over to hold his elbow.
He shakes me off; his pride always a notch too big. “Stop fussing over me. You said the Mauer girl is in the house? Since when?”
“Patrick saw her yesterday.” Liam rats me out once more.
