Unwritten (Woodlands 5)

Finn and I bought this huge house several years ago when the real estate market crashed. Finn’s dad was the builder, and when the market took a header, the buyer walked away. Finn talked his dad into letting us buy the five-bedroom glass-and-timber home, and Finn and I finished the interior by ourselves.

“I’ll grant you visiting rights, but I’m taking full custody.”

“Fair enough.” He holds out his palm, which I slap.

“What’re we making a deal about?” Bo asks, coming out of the house.

“I’m granting Finn visiting rights to the house.”

“Shit, man, some of my best memories happened here in the house. I better get some visiting rights, too.”

“Because you lost your virginity here?” I tease. Bo, a reformed player, likes to maintain that he never had another woman before AnnMarie.

“Damn straight.” He throws open the door of his truck. “Climb in. Let’s go do some reconnoitering.”

The address on the printout leads us to a new development on the south end of town.

“You sure we have the right place?” Finn says.

The homes here are nice. Real nice. For some reason, I thought Marrow would be a dipshit hiding in a rundown apartment. Instead, his digs are as swank as mine.

“What’s Marrow do for a living?” Bo asks.

“The asshole just got out of prison. I’m guessing nothing.” A memory pops into my head.

“What revs your engine?”

“Code. I write code.”

“Maybe he’s into computers,” I suggest.

“That might explain this.”

This is a low-slung modern ranch. Like our house, this one has a lot of windows. In the driveway sits an orange Porsche Targa with a white racing stripe.

“I know that’s a six-figure car, but how much do you think the crib set him back?” Bo wonders.

“Half a million, easy,” Finn offers.

“So she has a stalker with a lot of money and more than a few brain cells. I’d be scared of shadows at my house, too,” Bo says. He glances at me. “What do you want to do?”

“Go inside, drag the guy out by his hair, and hot glue his balls to his car’s exhaust pipe?”

Bo grins wide

ly. “I’m in for that.”

“Mal probably has a better idea,” Finn interjects. “Why don’t we go home and see what else Mal can find out about him?”

“Party pooper,” Bo grumps.

“I agree with both of you. That Finn sucks, but we should go home and check in with Mal.” He can find out anything about anyone. People tell him shit. He’s like a bartender, only he doesn’t need booze to loosen tongues. You sit down with him and find yourself spilling secrets you wouldn’t tell a priest. Don’t know how it happens. It just does.

Finn pulls out into the street. Halfway down, I tap on his shoulder.

“Wait a sec. Pull over. I recognize that car.”

Finn does as I ask, sliding to a stop. Across the street is a familiar silver Passat. The driver has his eyes glued straight ahead and doesn’t even notice Finn’s truck.