The Worst Best Friend: A Small Town Romance

There, I set her purse on the counter and try not to feel too weird rummaging around in it.

“They just brought my great-aunt in,” I tell the admin lady. “I’m here to give you her info.”

“Thank you, I’ll be right with you.”

I stand there, waiting impatiently for this sloth, and eventually give her Faye’s information before I’m told to take a seat in the waiting room. A doctor will be out to see me “as soon as possible.”

I’m well aware that probably means five hours.

Sipping on the worst battery acid disguised as coffee I’ve ever tasted, I try to keep my head attached to my shoulders.

Who did this?

What are we missing?

Was it a mistake to let Marty go sniffing at that Remington dude the nice way?

Were we mistaken about Mr. Muddy Boots entirely? And what if he’s not done busting in the heads of helpless old women in his heists?

Fuck.

So many disturbing questions.

I stand up with relief and wave wildly the second I see Grady, Willow, and my little cousins march through the front door. Avery and Sawyer look scared. I hate seeing the fear on their eleven-year-old faces.

“Heard anything yet?” Grady asks quickly.

“No. Nothing. She’s in their hands and we’re waiting for a doctor.”

Grady runs a hand through his thick hair and swallows loudly. I know what my uncle’s thinking.

Faye’s far more than our aunt.

For years, she’s been our rock, always there for us like a stand-in grandmother through thick and thin when no one else was.

When Grady’s first wife was falling apart from a rare neurological disease, she stepped in to shore up his family and help him get the bar off the ground.

When I was the asshole going to pieces thanks to my own scrambled brain, she was there. Never judgmental, always kind, ever ready to swing by and clean my place or leave me a good home-cooked meal while I scrambled to build my shop and make people trust me enough with their precious cars.

“Damn, I don’t get it. Tell me what happened, West,” Uncle Grady says, his brown eyes hot lava pools.

“I don’t know.” Flustered, I repeat what I told him over the phone. “I found her crumpled on the living room floor. Bleeding from the back of her head. Don’t know if she had a heart attack and tripped, if she fell and hit her head on her own, or what—” I shrug, my eyes flicking to the munchkins. I can’t spill the gory details in front of my upset little cousins.

Willow seems to understand and gives me a sad smile before she asks them if they want something from the vending machines.

Grady stops to kiss them all on the forehead.

Once they’re safely out of earshot, I say, “There was a broken vase on the floor, blown to bits by her feet. No water or flowers. Just the vase. I can’t say if it means anything or not. Drake’s at the house right now with a deputy, giving it a complete once-over. He said he’ll check in first thing with whatever he finds—or doesn’t.”

Uncle Grady nods, running a hand through his thick beard. “Does he think it’s connected to the last break-in?”

“He’s definitely wondering, same as me. Shit.” I pause to sigh. “I just wish she would’ve told me she’d gone home earlier. I could have set up the system then and prevented all this. Or at least we’d have a real suspect to go after.”

Grady lays a hand on my shoulder. “This isn’t your fault, West. The system wouldn’t have mattered if it was something medical after all, or an accident. We can’t go jumping to conclusions without hard proof. Quit blaming yourself for everything.”

“I would, only this is my fault, Uncle Grady.”

“Bull. I’m not gonna argue with you, son, so just stop. No one thinks it’s your fault.”