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“Knock yourself out. Anything you can sell from this place goes right in your college fund.”
Jude makes a sour face. He hates when I remind him that, yes, he is one thousand percentabsolutelygoing to college, and we aren’t fighting about it anymore. Because I really might punch him if he tries again.
“You could start in January. I have enough to get you through your first semester. And by next fall, this place will have sold, for sure.”
“I don’t want to start midyear. And anyway, you’re going to need my help.”
“Oh, you’re actually gonna help?”
“Ha, ha.” Jude rolls his eyes. “If I don’t help, then how come I know how to tape and paint a room, despite the fact that I never consented to add that knowledge to my brain?”
“You’ve never taped.”
“I’ve seen you do it. And Ihavepainted.”
He’s got me there. Jude has, occasionally, painted. And he’s pretty good at it, too, for however long he lends his attention.
My brother is brilliant at everything he tries; that’s the tragedy. He was a middle-school chess champion, a cello prodigy, and top in every test at his fancy private school. But not top in his class because he’s never handed in a homework assignment. Or practiced anything for more than a few hectic, obsessive months.
I’d kill to have an ounce of his genius. But I’m B+ across the board—and that’s with me trying my hardest and studying my ass off. Without the work ethic, who knows how stupid I’d be.
“I need to head into town,” I tell Jude. “Get groceries and all that. You want to come with?”
I thought his answer would be an automatic yes because I never learn.
“I’ll stay here and explore,” Jude says.
“Okay. Just be careful…some of these floors aren’t too stable.”
“You’re worried about the floor falling out from under me now? God, I need to give you something real to stress about.”
“Please don’t.”
I know he’s only kidding, but I hate to leave him here all alone, his face thin and pale in the gloomy light, his eyes huge and dark and childlike. My brother turned twenty last week, but he looks so much younger. He always has.
I ruffle his hair. “I’ll be back soon.”
He smooths it with a long-suffering expression. “Don’t hurry.”
* * *
It only takesme an hour to drive into Grimstone and load up my ancient Bronco with groceries and a few other supplies. I make a cursory examination of the local hardware store, knowing that’ll be my top shopping destination in the upcoming weeks.
I’m pleased to see two new restaurants on Main Street, plus some bougie-looking boutiques. The resort is booming, which is exactly what I’m counting on to turn this flip from profitable to life changing. Uncle Ernie’s house isn’t so far in the sticks anymore—for the right buyer, it could simply be considered “private.”
I’m feeling pretty good on the drive back up the long, winding road to Blackleaf until I come to a chained and padlocked gate that was most certainlynothere the last two times I passed through.
“What the fuck?”
I get out of the Bronco and walk right up to it like it might be an optical illusion. Fifty-seven minutes ago, I blew through here on my way into town, not even noticing the fence posts on either side of the road. Now it’s barricaded by an eight-foot tall, rusty, but extremely solid iron gate. I shake the chain like that’s gonna help.
This would be a problem except that I have my tool bag in the back of the Bronco—containing one very large pair of bolt cutters.
Bolt cutters are fucking awesome. However, they do not magically make cutting through inch-thick steel a piece of cake. I’m sweating and grunting, and I’ve torn my T-shirt before I manage to break the chain.
“I could shoot you for that.”
I drop the bolt cutters and the chain, making a sound that could only be described as, “screaming like a little girl.”
