Unwritten (Woodlands 5)

“Hey, never thought she was.”

Davis sighs heavily. “We went to see the detective who put Marrow in jail the first time around, but she says that without any evidence, we can’t charge him with squat. Detective Pressley sent out his parole officer to check up on him, and a couple junkie friends swore up and down that Marrow and them were playing video games all night.”

“So the cops aren’t going to do anything,” I conclude.

He gives a grim shake of his head.

“Okay.” I pause as if I’m mulling over the idea, when it’s all I’ve been thinking about since I woke up this morning. “Then Landry should come with us.”

* * *

“No way. She’ll ruin it,” Rudd predictably proclaims a few hours later.

I shoulder him aside as I carry in the flat screen that will go in the front of the bus. The new tile is down. The cabinets are up and now we’re installing the finishing touches.

“It’s not up for negotiation, Rudd,” I tell him, dropping the television onto the bench seat.

“Unless she’s a troll, we’re going to hook up, but we all know I don’t do relationships. When I’m done hitting that, she’ll be angry every time I bring some other chick back to the bus.”

The thought of Rudd sleeping with Landry makes me want to choke him, so I keep my mouth shut.

“Why would she want to fuck you?” Ian pulls the wires through the wall and threads them around the frame of the bracket that’ll hold the TV.

“Why wouldn’t she?”

“Because she has actual taste and doesn’t want to get syphilis?”

“Those were warts, man,” Rudd yells. “I’ve told you a million times, that’s a genetic condition.”

Ian and I exchange a smirk.

“Why can’t he just go to jail?” Rudd whines.

I grab the screwdriver from the seat cushion and attach the anchor plate for the TV.

“He was in jail,” I reply. “He served three months of an eighteen-month sentence.” When Davis told me all the gritty details, I wanted to string this Marrow guy up—not just because he was messing with my plans, but because it wasn’t right that the dude only served a fraction of his sentence. What was the frigging point?

“But if he screwed up again, can’t he just go back?”

“They don’t have any solid evidence that he was there, and he’s got douchebag friends backing up a fake alibi.”

“How do we know it was fake?” Rudd asks with an arch of his eyebrow.

I twist the last screw in and toss the screwdriver onto the counter. “Davis believes his sister, and I believe Davis. You got a problem with that, take it up with him. I know it’s not ideal, but we’ve got the space here.”

“Where’s she gonna sleep?” he demands.

“In the back.”

“The big space? Thought you would take that.”

I hoist the screen and fit it onto the wall anchors while Rudd sips on his beer. He’s the laziest son of a bitch. “Like I said, we’ve got the room.”

“What’s she going to do on the road? Make us sandwiches?”

Davis appears at the door. “You guys talking about Landry?”

Rudd scowls. “Yeah, man. I don’t like it. Women only mess bands up.”