Thank God I’ve got a kid who thinks fast with his camera.
I swerve around the corner, hoping to catch him before he takes off.
Instead, I catch him tossing two gold bars into the trash can next to the pump with an angry shake of his head. Casual and plain as day, like he’s throwing out some leftover packaging from burgers and fries.
What the fuck?
Who goes to the trouble of stealing what’s probably five figures worth of gold, and then literally throws it away?
I gun the engine, slewing my Jeep into the parking lot just as he’s firing up his truck with another rattling thunder-pop from hell.
I deliberately stab my vehicle in front of him, blocking off his path, then cut my engine and get out.
Casting a wide stance, I wait, folding my arms over my chest like a hall monitor who’s just caught an insanely boneheaded teenager.
Coakley freezes, his lip curled in a sneering curse, only to go silent as his washed-out grey eyes lock on me through the windshield, the color of muddy rainwater beneath his thatch of unruly reddish-brown hair.
Oh, yeah.
He recognizes me.
He also knows that I know damned well what he did.
Balling one hand into a fist, I flick one finger up and crook it, beckoning like I’m talking to an unruly kid. “Out. Right the fuck now.”
He spits out something I can’t hear from the corner of his mouth, then grudgingly pushes his truck’s door open and steps out, dropping down and slamming it shut behind him.
“You got a problem, Charter?” he snarls without preamble.
“Depends. Seems like you’ve got a problem with me, Gavin,” I answer. I’m not taking his bait. “Having a little tourist hop through town? What a coincidence, you washing up my way.”
“I’m just passing through.” Sullen, sulking, he’s avoiding my eyes. “Small fucking world. If I’d known you were here, I’d have risked running out of gas between here and Missoula.”
“Nice to see you too, asshole. So much for hoping you didn’t have any hard feelings about the mine.”
“Don’t fucking talk to me about hard feelings or that stupid mine!” he snaps, narrowing his eyes. “You weren’t the one left holding the bag with nothing, practically living on the street like a bum.”
“You don’t know what my life was like. So don’t think you know what I sacrificed to survive after things went bust.” I stare at him coolly. “And don’t lie to me, man. It’s interesting that you didn’t know I was in town, but you knew enough to go stealing from behind my woodpile. What are the odds? One in I-think-you’re-full-of-shit-tillion?”
His shoulders jerk.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re crazy.”
“So you didn’t just toss two gold bars into the fucking trash?”
“...don’t make me laugh. Gold? That’s some spray-painted rocks.” He starts toward me with his teeth bared, his fists balling up. “That how you’re scamming people now? Tungsten-plated bricks and you bilk ’em out of even more fucking money? You’re a sick dude, Paxton.”
He can’t be serious.
Right?
But if by some unholy miracle he thought the gold was fake, that explains his epic stupidity.
“I never scammed anyone,” I throw back, my hackles up, my fists clenched tight—but I stand my ground. “Least of all you.”
“The hell you didn’t, Charter,” he cries. Next thing I know, I’ve got a man coming at me like a freight train, all raised fists and plowing force. “You’re lucky I don’t fucking kill you for what you did!”
So tiresome.
Looks like I’m in for a world of hurt. He may be a third my size—still big by most people’s standards—but he’s pissed enough to leave a few bruises.
Still, I’m damn glad he doesn’t realize the gold’s actually real.
Now I just gotta rescue those two bars in the garbage and get them home before anyone else gets up in our business.
Even if it means weathering a little of that pain Gavin’s been storing up for me for what looks like ages. Don’t worry, I’ve got plenty to return the favor.
Maybe I deserve it. Maybe I don’t.
I don’t know.
I just know I need to get rid of Gavin and his pathetic grudge.
I’m not letting this angry little hornet of a man pile more grief on Felicity’s plate.
9
Working In The Gold Mine (Felicity)
I should’ve known this wouldn’t lead me anywhere except Bad Memoryville.
Population: me.
I sit on the hard wooden chair in Wentworth Langley’s postage stamp of a police station, my feet tucked under me, now and then shifting so the unforgiving seat will stop numbing one butt cheek or the other.
My eyes feel like they’re bleeding as I pore through pages and pages of old documents from my father’s death.
Good thing I left The Nest early. I know Langley likes to dodge out before sunset. He’s usually in bed shortly after dinner, fancying himself the hero of a one-horse town where he should be ready to rock and roll in the middle of the night, six-shooters blazing, to ride to the rescue of any damsel or dude in distress.