Crazy (The Gibson Boys 4)

“Who is it?” her voice calls from the other side.

“Peck.”

“Come in,” she says.

The handle is loose as I twist it. The hinges squeal as I push the door open and enter the kitchen.

Dylan is standing at a bar that separates the kitchen from an eating area. Her bright pink shirt and yellow sunglasses tucked in the front don’t match the frown on her face.

“Hey,” I say. “What’s going on?”

She gives me a sound that I wouldn’t quite call a laugh. “Peck … This place is …”

I look around. The kitchen is old but workable. The flooring is intact but outdated. The ceiling sports popcorn from the seventies, but many houses here do.

“It’s solid. And we can fix anything you don’t like,” I offer.

Biting her bottom lip, she nods. “Go look in there.” She motions toward a doorway across from her.

I take a peek inside.

Animal hair is thick on the floor—so thick, in fact, that it almost makes a second carpet. There’s fur on top of a dresser that was left behind. The unmistakable odor of cat piss is present, and I’m sure it’d be worse if the window wasn’t open.

“Yeah …” I turn to face Dylan. “That’s rough.”

“It’s like that in the laundry room, and the living room isn’t much better.” Her shoulders fall. “I’m allergic to cats. Like, allergic-allergic. Like, allergic like I shouldn’t be in here at all, probably.”

“What happens to you? You aren’t going to die or anything, right?”

Her lips twist almost into a smile. “No. I’m not gonna die. But I probably will break out into hives, and my lips will blow up like balloons.”

There’s fear in her eyes that’s overkill over a bunch of swollen lips.

“Let’s go outside,” I say.

She looks around the room, gnawing on her bottom lip again.

I give her the look Walker gives me when he’s tired of my shit. “Come on.”

Her feet don’t move very fast, but she winds up at the door to the garage. I hold it open as she passes through and follow her into the driveway.

“I can go get one of those carpet shampooer things,” I offer. “Or we can rip it out and put something else down.”

She presses her palms on her forehead. “I don’t think I can do that on a rental.”

“Well, I’m pretty damn sure the landlord can’t do this to you either.”

“I can’t even think,” she says, squeezing her eyes shut. “I’m bamboozled by this.”

“Did your landlord not even check it before he gave you the keys?”

“I don’t know,” she wines, dropping her hands. “I think he did. He told me they left a little mess, but I was so anxious to get the place that I told him not to worry about it.” She gazes at the house. “I’m screwed, Peck. I don’t know what I can do. Cat … stuff, whatever it is that I’m allergic to, embeds itself in the fibers of a house.”

I think she’s going to cry. Her bottom lip goes between her teeth again, and she works it back and forth. Her green eyes stay wide open like she’s afraid to blink or tears will fall down her cheeks.

My stomach twists into a knot. I don’t know what to do. This isn’t my department. I’m great at executing plans but coming up with them—especially for other people—is someone else’s job.

“Well …” I jam my hands in my pockets. “I’m sure you can get out of the contract. I mean, you haven’t even moved in. Who is your landlord?”

“Mark Billingsley.”

“Want me to talk to him?” I offer.

“It’s not just that. I mean, what am I going to do? My stuff is coming in a pod thing soon, and I have nowhere to even put it now. I could fill Navie’s entire apartment with my stuff.”

She kicks a pebble around the driveway. Her shoulders are tense. Each kick is a little harder until I’m afraid that if she aims wrong, she’ll put out a window with the rock.

“Are there storage units around?” she asks.

I shake my head. “Closest one I know of is about forty-five minutes away.”

“That’ll be convenient.” She sighs as if the weight of the world is on her shoulders. “I need to find a place to rent.”

My brain goes into overdrive. There aren’t a lot of vacant houses around Linton because most people never leave once they get here. The houses I know are rentals are occupied, and most of them are owned by a guy out of Chicago who has the personality of a wounded badger.

Dylan looks down and scratches a place on her calf. “Flea bite.”

I walk a circle trying to rack my brain for something to solve her problem when I spy the leftovers she brought me for lunch. The smell and warmth of walking into Navie’s last night stuck with me all night. So did the conversation with Dylan.