It doesn’t matter how many years it’s been since he quit the game, he’ll serve time for the years he served them. No lawyer on earth could sweet-talk a judge out of imposing some kind of punishment.
And in Dad’s state, any punishment means he’ll never breathe the air as a free man again.
“We’ll figure something else out,” I whisper, glancing at the fire. “We got lucky tonight, even with Noelle falling through. I’m not squandering this chance.”
“Like what, Gracie?” He takes a long pull off the tea and sets down his cup. “We can’t stay here. Can’t dare drag anyone else into our troubles.” He coughs a couple of times into his shirt sleeve. “I really thought the farm would be payment enough, but hell, I was wrong. Wrong again.”
I stand, taking hold of his arm.
“No sense in worrying about it, now. You need to get some rest.”
It’s a miracle he doesn’t fight me. I’ve seen him like this too often in the rare idle moments we have, where he’ll just stay up all night brooding and stressing out.
Once he’s settled in one of the bedrooms, I walk into the kitchen and ladle myself a bowl of soup from the sealed pot still on the stove and bring it to the table.
I can’t help remembering the first time I saw Clay Grendal.
I was fifteen when he carried a black duffel bag full of money into the kitchen of our apartment in the Milwaukee burbs and hand-delivered it to Dad. I’d stood next to my mother, who’d frowned disapprovingly as my father opened that bag.
I hadn’t understood what was going on, who the guy with the dark hair wearing a black leather jacket and smelling like he’d been doused in cigarette smoke even was.
“It’s all there, old man. My gift to you and your people for a job well done,” he’d said, this deceptive warmth shining in his dark eyes. “It’s high time you enjoyed the good life. Is this the missus?”
Dad watched nervously as he plodded across the room, grabbed Mom’s hand, and laid a kiss on the back. Mom just looked like she was about to throw up.
“Charmed,” Clay grunted, flicking a feral tongue over his lips before looking at Dad again. “You’ll always have a place with the boys, if you ever need it again. Let me know if country livin’ gets boring, Nelson.”
Then came the moment I wish I could forget.
He turned, stared, and winked at me, those bear-like brown eyes so dark, so hard to decipher.
No, I didn’t know what was going on, but Mom’s sick, strained expression told me all I needed. It also warned me to keep my mouth shut.
So I did, keeping one hand on my hip, softly pinching the skin under my jeans until it bruised.
The same spot aches now, remembering that day.
We’d moved to the farm the same week. Though the place was worn down and needed a lot of money and time to fix it up, it was ours.
We built Sellers’ Pumpkin Patch into a profitable business. Things were good, very good, until my last year at college, when Mom was diagnosed with cancer. Her health insurance soon maxed out and Dad wound up making a call to Clay Grendal for help.
Dad would do anything for her, and he swore to drive her to the Mayo Clinic one state over for the best treatment available, even if it cost a fortune.
I’d been there again when Clay showed up, this time at the farm, sporting another fat bag bursting with cash. He’d acted sincere, concerned for my mom.
Dad was relieved, and the money made her final days fairly peaceful.
That’s why I’d never said a word about how Clay looked at me, this lecherous gleam in his eye.
How he ran a hand down my arm when my parents were out of the room.
Every last bit of me cringed, knowing what this wolf wanted.
I still haven’t said a word about it, or the other things that happened.
The ‘bad luck’ started after Mom died.
Little things at first. Petty vandalism—someone driving through the pumpkin fields and then the corn maze right before Halloween, our peak season.
The next year, it was worse.
The barn and gift shop caught on fire. Since it was ruled arson, insurance wouldn’t pay.
They wouldn’t cover the cost of all the items that were stolen, either. By fall, we couldn’t even buy a new insurance policy. Not that it mattered, there wasn’t much left to insure, and Dad was in no state to rebuild anything himself.
I knew it was Clay. Dad insisted it wasn’t, it couldn’t be, he’d never…
Oh, but he would.
And he did.
Dad’s eyes were opened when the demon visited us one night, asking for his payment, flashing this violent sneer as he mentioned our run of hard times.
Ugh.
So much for my appetite.