The Worst Best Friend: A Small Town Romance

After today, I’m not even mad. Just worried for his sake.

I hated how his eyes went dark before I left, filled with this faded, somber look.

He pretended everything was cool, but I saw through his act. I think it’s why I haven’t gotten so much as a bad joke texted back.

He’s avoiding me now.

But why?

Hopefully, telling him about the latest with Carson will help.

Sad to say, I’m less sure than ever he’s the man behind Faye’s trouble.

He showed up back at the B&B today with a trunk packed with goods bought from local farmers. That’s what he’s been doing every day, driving wherever the country roads spidering out from Dallas lead, stopping at homes and inquiring about anything they’d like to sell for quick cash.

He carried a couple of old tin signs and a pair of leather chaps inside.

I listened while he told Faye about them and apologized for not following up about her bookshelf. He mentioned nabbing a few old lovely lamps, too, the handcrafted stained glass type that are hard to come by anywhere these days.

Predictably, Faye gushed all over him, insisting we go see his jackpot.

With Carson standing there, offering an almost apologetic smile, I couldn’t say no...

Do I still want to flip him off? Sure.

Just a little less than before.

And I may not like it, but he was as genteel as ever—if a little frosty toward me—opening his trunk and carefully unwrapping a stained glass lamp for us to see.

“It’s right up your alley, Rachel. See the little airplanes?” He pointed to the designs in the stained glass, hundred-year-old aircraft that would’ve been the norm in Amelia Earhart’s era.

I pretended to be impressed.

“It’d be perfect for Amelia’s, I believe, but...finders, keepers. You understand,” he said with an oily wink.

So, his manners may suck, but I’m not sensing criminal mastermind vibes off him.

Still feeling skeptical, I scanned other areas of his car discreetly, looking for anything shaped remotely like Faye’s missing gun.

Nothing turned up, and Carson happily boasted about his new trophies. The guy wouldn’t shut up for twenty minutes about a box of musical beer mugs from nineteenth century Bavaria that he got “for a steal” from a farmer near the Montana state line.

Surprise, surprise.

To my disappointment and slight relief, he acted like what he claims to be. Just a well-dressed collector looking for old things to play middleman with.

I should be happier because it screams Muddy Boots must be our robber.

Weston should be thrilled with something concrete to go on—if he ever comes home.

But somehow, it just doesn’t feel that easy.

The other guy feels like a walking question mark.

With Carson, we know who he is and where he’s staying. If Marty can’t suss out this other guy...it’s scary to think about.

That means we have a loose cannon skulking around town, whereabouts potentially unknown, watching and plotting his next heist. He could even turn violent.

Tucking my feet under me, I snuggled down in the chair, staring out into the chill fall night at Weston’s dark lump of a house.