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“Why is your vehicle registered to a Michael McNally?” Bobby Wildwood’s beginning to this interrogation lacks any cordialness we’d had before.
I look toward the barn in the distance and the mostly empty parking lot. Only the red automobile in question remains. Light is still flowing out from the open doors of the barn, making the hood shine.
“Are you sure you don’t want to take this inside?” I tilt my head toward the house.
“I’m not letting you into my home,” Bobby says, hard. “Not if I don’t know who you are.”
All right. We’re doing this out here, then. Fine.
“Because the car isn’t mine,” I reply truthfully. “I stole it.”
Bobby stands up, his defensiveness firmly in place when he coldly remarks, “We’re very welcoming around here, if you hadn’t noticed.”
“I did notice.”
“But we don’t welcome criminals.”
Shrugging, I explain, “I needed something to drive, and I wanted to experience the rush of going fast. I must say, I don’t understand what the hullabaloo is about. Quite frankly, operating that hunk of metal was very frustrating.”
Like he can’t believe what I’m saying, Bobby opens and closes his mouth like a fish out of water. I’ve made the poor man speechless, and we haven’t even gotten to the shocking part yet.
“If it makes you feel better,” I continue, “I don’t plan to take the car home with me. So, let’s not call it stealing. Borrowing sounds better.”
“Well, you can’t leave it here. Get back in, drive away, and never come back.”
“No,” I simply refuse.
Bobby holds up his phone. “Cody did some extensive research on you.”
That little twerp. “Okay.”
“He sent me everything he found on Ellister Lostland. And do you know what he discovered?”
“I suspect nothing.”
Surprised at my candor, Bobby’s head jerks back a little. “That’s right. Nothing. You have no social media. No ‘footprint on the web’ as he calls it. It’s like you don’t exist. You’re not from the bank, are you?”
“No.”
Fear enters his eyes. “I don’t know who you are or what you want—”
“I’m not here to lie to you, Bobby. I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”
“Everything about what?”
“Your grandfather was Waylon Wildwood.”
It’s a statement, not a question, but he confirms it with a curt nod. “Yes. That knowledge doesn’t make you special. The information is all around us. Waylon’s name is on everything. He’s the reason this farm exists.”
I huff out a humorless laugh. “No, he’s not. I am.”
Bobby’s nostrils flare—an indication that I’ve struck a familiar nerve. “What do you mean?”
“Without me, you wouldn’t have all this.” I spread my arms to indicate the property. “Little Waylon Wildwood made a deal with me when he was eight years old. He would inherit this land. In exchange, a child from two generations down the family line would belong to my people.”
Chortling bitterly, Bobby shakes his head as he denies, “That’s impossible and preposterous. Who put you up to this? It’s not a funny joke.” Before I can answer him, he starts tapping his phone. “I’m calling the police.”
Stomping toward him, I knock the device from his hand. It goes clattering on the porch, and when Bobby bends to pick it up, I get in his way. “I wouldn’t.”
