“You’re a good woman, Cheyenne Grady.”
And he’s gone. The moment I’m inside the house, Grandma is on me and hugging me like her life depends on it. I hug her back knowing that she’s talked to Holly, but I don’t care. I just need a Grandma cuddle to make everything a little bit better.
CHAPTER 15
February
14 months to Mancuso’s downfall
I tentatively peek my head out around one of the wide columns that line the front porch of the Jennings residence and wait until I’m certain that I don’t hear or see anybody coming. I’m not supposed to be here. Like really not supposed to be here. In the weeks following my departure from Fort Bragg High School, I have split my time between studying for the GED test and listening in on every conversation about club business that I possibly can. But that wasn’t enough, and that’s why I’m here.
The best thing about your best friend betraying you and your not-boyfriend being a dirt ball is that it frees up a lot of time I would have spent socializing. Tracie’s sent me a bunch of text messages apologizing for the aforementioned betrayal, but I eventually got so tired of hearing about it that I blocked her number. That’s when she resorted to coming to the house. Dad was about to jump down her throat, but he couldn’t get there before Holly, who singlehandedly chased her to the curb. After the drama, I got some studying in for the GED, which I took yesterday. I’ll know whether or not I passed in a few weeks. So here I am. Today’s a new day, and I have nothing to do. My nails are painted, my hair is done, and I had nothing better to do after lunch than to put my detective skills to work.
Though Mr. and Mrs. Jennings’ house is fairly close to the road, the wide columns should hide me well enough while I survey the scene before me. There’s a neat pile of newspapers stacked near the front door and a few package delivery notices attached to the door. I swipe my cell phone from my pocket and snap a few pictures of the door before stepping closer to take photos of the individual items. The oldest package pickup notice is dated as far back as several weeks ago. A few other notices stick to the door, but only just barely, while several more have fallen off and are crumpled atop the welcome mat. Two pieces of paper with bright red bands at the top hang from the door knob. One is a notice from the water company that the water has been shut off in the house. It’s from last week. The other notice dates back to the middle of December. The bill was overdue back then, and the company was threatening to cut the water. That was two months ago.
With the water shut off and all the stacked up newspapers and the notices hanging about, I can’t imagine that the Jenningses have been here since then. Which is weird, because their son is still in the hospital and the news has reported he’s awake. The local stations claim they don’t know specifics about his condition and what he remembers, if anything.
Once I have enough pictures of everything, making sure they’re all clear and show the dates, I stand awkwardly on the porch trying to figure out what to do next. The club needs to know about this. They probably already do, but what if, for some reason, they don’t? It’s awfully strange that Mr. and Mrs. Jennings haven’t been home in probably months now, and yet the news left that off the report. If Dad thinks the Italian mafia hurt Darren like I think he thinks they hurt Mindy, then how could he not know that Darren’s parents have left town?
Frustrated and unsure what to do next, I cautiously head down the walk to the driveway. There are more scattered newspapers on the lawn that have deteriorated into the grass with the winter rains, leaving behind soggy chunks that look like they’re going to be a pain for someone to clean up. At the end of the drive is the mailbox. It’s one of those custom-made ones that’s shaped like the house—built in a colonial style with impressive columns that serve as handles to open it up and retrieve the mail. Pulling on the handle, I peek into the box. It’s stuffed full of envelopes, stray package notices, and even a small box. I take a picture of the packed mailbox and close the door.