“She has to be. Grandma gets offended easily. And Sylvie’s her favorite.”
I shake my head. “All that work just to get a house…”
“She told you?” Max sounds shocked.
“Well, yeah.”
“Then you know that’s why she puts up with both of them. Otherwise, she wouldn’t. I couldn’t hang, so I left.”
Whoa. This is an apocalypse-level information dump for Max. “Don’t worry, man. I’m going to do whatever Becca needs to help her get that house.”
He grunts his thanks.
“Talk to you later,” I say.
He grunts again and hangs up.
I stare at the phone. So he freaked out over the possibility that I’d screw Sylvie, which means it isn’t the first time Sylvie tried to steal Becca’s man. Damn. What a bitch.
And obviously, she’s succeeded before.
And Becca puts up with all this because of Margaret.
Hmm…
Something in my heart softens toward Becca, for reasons that have nothing to do with how hot she is in bed. It’s more like empathy—she’s playing a long-ass game to get what she wants, just like I did with Dad and his manic insistence that I become a Harvard cardiologist.
But at least Dad didn’t do anything too humiliating. He backed off as long as I brought home straight A’s and a perfect SAT. But Margaret and Sylvie? Well, they are assholing on a whole new level.
My respect for Becca doubles.
I glance in the direction of her studio. She shouldn’t have to put up with more of the same bullshit. I’m going to find a way to get Margaret to hand the house over. Based on what Becca said, it’s obvious Margaret doesn’t really want to keep it. I suspect she only keeps it to make Becca dance to her tune—because that childhood home is Becca’s button.
But Margaret will have a button, too. Everyone does. And I plan to find it and push it repeatedly until I get what I want.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Devlin
My plan requires intel, which requires going over to Margaret’s house. But I have a perfect excuse—returning her Tupperware. Even the weather is cooperating; the rain has let up and now it’s just overcast. It’s like the weather fairies want me to go over and see what’s up.
I debate briefly between just walking in or knocking, then opt for knocking. Who knows what’s going on in there? She could have made a satanic pentagram out of those cows of judgment and might well be sitting naked in the middle of it for some kind of “assholehood leveling-up” ceremony or something. Underneath that normal Texas lady exterior lurks an unhinged madness. No sane human could make those cows.
I knock a second time, but there’s no answer. After a few moments, I put my ear to the door but hear nothing.
I glance at the driveway. Her SUV is parked there. Not that she has to drive to go to places. This town’s so small, I could probably run all the way around it in an hour. And for all I know, she could’ve gone somewhere on a broomstick.
I take a step back, then decide to go around and see if she’s in the back. She has a huge backyard with a screened porch and a charcoal grill.
Sure enough, she’s seated in a rocking chair, holding a glass of her sweetened poison…er, tea.
“So you don’t think I can get the money I want on the house?” she asks, glancing at a phone on her lap.
She wants to sell this home and move? That doesn’t give me a lot of time to find an angle to work her.
“Doubt it,” a male voice says. “I mean, the place has been sitting empty for a while. It’s going to need a lot of work.”
What the fuck? That has to be the one Becca’s supposed to get. Most people don’t have a bunch of houses sitting empty. It’s expensive to pay for property taxes and basic maintenance and repairs, and I doubt this small town has a bunch of unoccupied homes.