The Romeo Arrangement

What’s the deal?

I dragged her here like a barking idiot looking for answers.

Instead, all I’ve got from Grace Sellers is a hard-on for more questions.

The way she reacted sticks with me all afternoon while I check out her truck and the horse trailer.

It feels good to put my hands to work since I can’t shut my brain off.

I go over their vehicle with a fine-toothed comb, checking everything.

Not just the fluids, the oil, and tire pressure, but every nook and cranny, anywhere something might be hidden.

I come up empty-handed, or close enough.

Besides a pistol with ammunition in the glovebox, I find the envelopes with old vet records on the horses and a worn, dog-eared owner’s manual for the truck.

Neither she nor Nelson come to the house for dinner.

Tobin brings them food anyway, without me suggesting it, and when he returns after delivering their dinner, he says Nelson slept most of the day.

The news is a double-edged sword.

I want Nelson to get better, of course, but if he does, it’ll be that much harder keeping them here.

A little while later, my phone pings. I see a new email from Faulk.

Here’s what I have so far. More to follow.

Damn, the first line of his email is already disappointing.

I’d wanted everything by now. Red meat. Solid intel.

What’s contained in the message is the same old shit: more questions than answers.

Some financial records that don’t quite add up. Past due bills for the deceased Mrs. Sellers. Massive ones.

Then they’re suddenly paid off in lump sums that I know didn’t come from some railroad pension.

The police reports are worse.

Disasters at the pumpkin farm, mysterious fires, crop destruction, thefts with no probable suspects or active investigations.

There’s also a medical record for Nelson from a few years back.

A gunshot wound.

I hold in a breath and let it out slowly.

Swiping my email closed, I hit the contacts on my phone.

I still need more info, but what I’ve read is enough to tell me I can’t wait.

Ready or not, Grace Sellers, it’s showtime.

9

No Rest for the Weary (Grace)

For the first time since the holidays, Dad slept almost all day, and then through the night.

I’m not sure if it’s the meds I’ve been shoving at him every time he opens his eyes helping, or if he’s getting worse.

A miserable part of me worries he’ll just fall asleep one day and won’t ever wake up.

I push the thought out of my head, refusing to go there.

It has to be the medications.

He has to be getting better.

No, I’m not turning into my mother, and I’m not daring to wish for anything.

Taking a tall sip of the coffee I’m holding while standing in the doorway of the bedroom, I watch the steady rise and fall of Dad’s chest.

I fold one hand over the other, clasping the warm mug, trying not to let my fingers shake.

I remember the last time I was this worried like yesterday.

My mind goes back in time to the farm, shortly after Mom died.

Three Years Ago

My first instinct was to scream.

Who wouldn’t when you come home from shopping and find your dad in the bathroom, trying to bandage himself with blood everywhere?

“What…what happened?” I strain out about two seconds before I fly into the bathroom next to him, trying to decipher why he’s streaked with rusty red smudges, thick as paint.

“Gracie, no. Leave me be. I just need to sit for a little and…and…” He collapses on the toilet, holding his head.

At first, I thought it was some kind of freak accident. The freshly cut smell of grass outside tells me maybe he’d cut himself with the mower, but he’s not missing any fingers.

Then I see the raw, ugly hole in his shoulder.

He’s been shot.

Oh my God.

I can’t guess how much blood he’s lost to save my life. But I know we don’t have much time, not with that wound he can’t even keep a stained towel against, still cradling his head in one hand like he’s about to pass out.

“Dad, come on, this way! If…if you can walk. No, don’t fight me!”

For once in his life, Dad listens.

He leans against me, grunting and cursing up a blue streak under his breath as I guide him clumsily down the hall to his room.

Somehow, I get him on the bed, race to the linen closet, and pull out half the towels to try to stop the bleeding.

It helps slow it down, I guess. Thank God.

But the thing that makes my blood run ice-cold is the fact that I don’t need a background in medicine to see this could’ve been so much worse.

A few more inches, and it would’ve been right through his heart.

He doesn’t fight me as I reach for the phone, bawling so frantically to 9-1-1 I’m amazed they can get the gist of what I’m saying.

“Who did this?” I ask, nostrils flaring, shaking with fury as we wait for the ambulance. “I swear to God, if I find out, I’ll—”