His hand rests on the gear shift, his face turned toward me. His mouth quirks when he says, “That smile says you’ve been up to no good. Need me to peel outta here like a good getaway driver, or do you want to give me a general direction to go?”
“Leave Oxford and head north toward Tennessee.” He’s teasing me and I’m sort of falling for it.
“I got you some food,” he says, nodding to the back seat.
Reaching behind me, my hand closes on the white plastic to-go bag. Inside is a cheeseburger with everything except onions and an order of sweet potato fries.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
We pull away while I grab the burger, taking a huge bite. He’s quiet while I eat, and I’m finding it hard to swallow past the lump in my throat. It’s the food that got me. And that he knew I liked sweet potato fries more than regular ones. And that I hate onions unless they’re cooked. The thoughtfulness of it has been so rare in my world.
I eat quickly then push all the trash back in the bag it came in when I’m done.
“So, just Tennessee?” he asks.
I nod. “Yes.”
His jaw flexes and he seems to struggle with holding back what he wants to say. Finally, he just spits it out. “You made a point to mention how important my appointments on Thursday are. I have a business in Glenview, Texas. It’s different work than what I do in Lake Forbing. I acquire things in a questionable way then sell those things for a significant markup. It’s not something that is public knowledge at home and I plan on keeping it that way.”
I’m floored by this admission. “But you’re telling me,” I say.
He glances at me, studies my face, then turns his attention back to the road. “Figured I’d go first.”
Neither of us say anything else. We ride this way for miles, him staring ahead at the road, me watching the blurred scenery from the side window.
“I’ll tell you everything. But not right now. I have to get past Friday.” It comes out as a whisper, but I know he heard every word. Because after Friday, I will know everything I need to know.
“I can live with that,” he says. “But come Friday, we’re putting it all on the table.”
My phone dings, saving me from having to say anything back to him, and a wave of relief courses through me when I see the notification.
Ryan glances my way and notices the change. “Good news?”
Nodding, I say, “Yes. Just what I needed.”
I open my phone and pull up the app that allows me to see an exact replica of what’s happening on Mitch’s phone right now. And sure enough, he did exactly what I hoped he would do. He reached out to Mr. Smith to complain about me.
It was a risky move visiting Mitch. I didn’t think he would invite me inside, but you never know when you’re dealing with deep-seated Southern manners. But luckily, he wanted to ensure there was distance between me and his family, and we kept to the porch. And when he sat in the rocker, right on top of the device I planted there just moments before, it was only a matter of him opening the message Devon sent to his phone while I was sitting across from him and we were in.
Given that he is just now getting in touch with my former boss tells me he thought about it for a bit, which speaks for that level head of his. I’m sure he worried about the risk of making contact again, but my showing up on his doorstep was far more threatening, which is why I had to make a scene before leaving. I could see he felt bad for me at first, and that wasn’t going to cut it. I needed him pissed. And a little bit scared of me. Enough to take the risk of reaching out.
There are a lot of things we don’t know about Mr. Smith. Despite Devon’s impressive skills, he has been unable to discover his real name or where he lives. The other thing we have been unable to uncover is how clients contact him and how they communicate. After dealing with Devon all these years, I know it’s not something as simple as a fake email address. So this is where Mitch comes in. Of all the jobs I’ve done, this was the only one where I felt certain who the client was, based on that slip from Tyron Nichols. Mitch Cameron knew he was being fired in Florida a week before I approached that megabooster. And he knew to speak to Tyron away from the listening devices in his house when he told him he’d want him on his team no matter what school he was coaching. Only one way he would have known those things.
Mitch Cameron was the client.
Now he is deep in a message board created to celebrate the love of a seventies band named King Harvest. I’m guessing most of these messages are meant for my boss, while a few just really love the one hit this band had, “Dancing in the Moonlight.” The new message window pops up and Mitch starts typing.
Gridiron Boss: I just heard Dancing in the Moonlight for the first time today.
That’s it. This must be how they make initial contact with Mr. Smith.
“Decision time,” Ryan says. He nods at the upcoming signs. “Straight to Memphis or somewhere else?”
“Not Memphis. Head northeast,” I say, and he flicks the turn signal on. “We’re going to Nashville.”
He glances my way. “Not Atlanta?”
“Not yet.”
He nods. “I’m going to pull over for gas since that’s a pretty good stretch. Get some more snacks.”
At the next exit, Ryan fills up the tank then heads into the store.
I’m glued to my phone, waiting for a reply to come through to Mitch. And while Mr. Smith may be hesitant to answer Mitch’s message, I’m hoping the overwhelming curiosity about what Mitch wants, added to the high probability that he is tracking me and knows we were in Oxford, will get the better of him. I need him to react the way I expect or I’m dead in the water.
Now that I know where to look, I open my browser and find the message board so I can snoop around instead of just seeing what Mitch is looking at. Since Devon can also see Mitch’s screen, I’m sure he’s doing the same. There are a lot of posts that say: I just heard Dancing in the Moonlight for the first time today. I always knew I wasn’t the only one working for my boss, but by the sheer number of posts, he’s got a lot more going on than I originally thought. There are a few usernames that could possibly match up to jobs I’ve done in the past, but I can only see their initial post. I’m sure the conversations with Mr. Smith are moved to private messages.
It’s only another minute or so before I get a notification that Mitch has a response to his message.
Kingharvestmegafan: What can I help you with?
Gridiron Boss: a girl showed up at my house. Said she worked for you. Wendy something. Asked me for money! She was out of control. Told me to fuck myself when I told her to leave. Screamed it loud enough for the neighbors to hear. I paid you too much money for some crackpot to knock on my door!!
Kingharvestmegafan: My apologies for the unexpected visit. I assure you, she will be taken care of and you will not be bothered again.
“There you are,” I whisper. “Got you.”
* * *
It’s late when we get to Nashville. Ryan pulls up in front of a run-down motel on the edge of town; my door is open before he puts it in park.
“Wait here. I’ll get us a room,” I say, one foot already out of the door.
He cuts the ignition. “Are you sure? I can—”
“I’m sure. Wait here.” He’s been frustrated with me since we left Oxford because I have dodged every question he has asked.
A few minutes later I’m back in the car and give Ryan the room number. We park right in front of the door since I asked for a unit on the ground floor. While we could afford nicer accommodations, I prefer to be able to make a quick exit if the need arises.
We packed light so it doesn’t take long to get settled in.
“I’m hitting the shower,” Ryan says. “I’ll find us some food after I get out.”
As soon as I hear the water turn on, I pull out my phone and scroll Instagram until I find a comment giving me the meeting time for tomorrow. I comment on a different post letting Devon know I received his message.