It was a good three miles before the shock wore off and I started to notice things, like the nice leather interior of the Dodge, and the soft country music on the stereo, which didn’t sound tinny like the radio in Dad’s Silverado. And then I noticed, in my peripheral vision, Randy sneaking glances at me. I thought about bleating at him again, but my throat hurt from the first time.
To his credit, he didn’t try to talk to me at all the whole way home, just chewed on that big ridiculous mustache of his and periodically spit tobacco juice into the brushed metal container.
When he pulled up in front of my house, he put the truck in park and cleared his throat. I reached for the door handle, but he pressed the door lock button, which shot me straight to DEFCON 2. I launched myself at the window, knowing it was useless, that auto glass doesn’t break easily. I grunted and slammed into the window again.
“What the hell are you doing?” Randy shouted.
I yanked on the door handle repeatedly, once I determined a dislocated shoulder was more likely than a broken window.
“Knock it off! Stop it!”
I didn’t.
“All right.” He unlocked the door just as I was pulling at the handle and I tumbled out of the truck and onto the ground. The dogs came running. I looked up and saw Randy frantically pulling on the passenger door to keep them out.
I ran for the front door of my house.
Randy’s voice shouted through the barely open window. “It’s what your dad wanted! I’ll be back, and you’d better be ready to talk.”
The dogs leapt at his truck, trying to get at him, and he sprayed gravel gunning it out onto the county road. They chased him for fifty yards then loped back to me.
I led them into the house and threw myself on the couch. I banged my fists into the sofa cushions, trying to beat back the sense of betrayal I felt. My dad had sold me like one of Detective Deirdre Walsh’s fellow detectives sold her out to a local drug kingpin, and got her shot and nearly killed. Sold her out for an envelope stuffed with cash.
Kind of like the sealed envelope that was now in Mr. Dooley’s possession. The Cousin Rose my dad had referred to in his video will was a character in a book called Rose--tinted Glass I’d found at the dump. I’d read it, keeping it hidden in my room, but Dad had found it during one of his surprise inspections. He’d given me the silent treatment for days after that, and then he’d read it himself. He sat me down when he was done and told me he was glad I’d read it because it could teach me about obedience and the price of defiance.
In the book, Cousin Rose was the high--spirited, rebellious daughter of a powerful and wealthy New England family. In order to prevent Rose from embarrassing her family and jeopardizing her father’s Senate bid, Rose’s stepmother convinced a judge to have Rose committed to the state mental hospital.
If I didn’t marry Randy, there was something in that envelope that would persuade a judge to lock me up. So the question was . . . what was it?
And how am I going to get my hands on it?
Chapter 6
Saturday
I WAS OUT back practicing knife throwing before work when the dogs tore around to the front of the house, barking. The road we live on gets very little traffic other than propane delivery trucks, so I stood and listened. A diesel engine rumbled toward the house.
The dogs’ barking got more frantic as the vehicle approached. I slung the Winchester’s strap over my shoulder, went into the house and looked out the front window. Randy King’s red Dodge Ram pulled into the drive and sat idling. He saw me and I ducked. Sweat sprang up on my forehead as I crouched by the window, and Randy tapped his horn. I looked out the window again. He was pointing at the dogs. I crouched again, wondering if he would leave if I ignored him. The bellowing truck horn answered my question. I stood and went out the front door, the Winchester still over my shoulder.
The dogs barked nonstop. Randy pointed at them again. I sighed.
“Sarx. Tesla. Off. Come.”
They reluctantly gave a few last barks over their shoulders and came to me. Randy cracked his window.
“Can I come in for a minute?”
“No,” I said.
“We need to talk.”
I knew this was true. I’d thought of nothing else since yesterday. I was in the process of formulating a plan to get that envelope from Mr. Dooley and escape the life Dad had mapped out for me, but I couldn’t avoid Randy forever.
I opened the garage door, put the dogs inside and closed it.
Randy switched off the Ram and stepped out. He smoothed his mustache.
I moved the Winchester strap to my other shoulder.
“Listen,” he said. “I wanted to come by and explain a -couple of things to you. And I brought you something.” He turned and pulled out a large bouquet of flowers in a cone of floral paper. He held them out toward me.
I didn’t move.
“For you.” His mustache twitched.
Sweat rolled down the side of my face and it tickled, but I still didn’t move.
“Can we sit down?”
“Can if you want,” I said, pointing at the misshapen Adirondack chairs my dad had made out of some dump--scavenged wood.
He walked over to one of the chairs and lowered himself into it. It creaked. He took off his Stetson and wiped his forehead with his shirtsleeve. “Hot one, huh?”
I nodded.