Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 71949 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71949 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
“Hey, Robbie,” I say. “Call me back as soon as you can.”
Now, for some help. Falcon’s my best shot at backup, even if I have to feed him a line.
I hit call. It rings twice before his gravel-rough voice answers. “You alive?”
“Barely.”
“That’s my line.” He yawns. “What’s going on? You sound like you’re about to ask me to help bury a body.”
“Nothing like that,” I say, hoping I’m not lying. “I just need your eyes on something. A spot on the property I’m thinking of using. Might build a guesthouse or something down the line.”
He pauses. “Since when are you into hospitality?”
“Since I started needing distractions.”
Damn, the lies are coming too easily.
It’s always the same. Once you cross the line, every next cross gets easier. I don’t like it. Yet I continue.
He snorts. “Uh-huh. Where is it?”
“I’ll text you the coordinates. Meet me there?”
“Sure thing. But you owe me lunch. I want ribs.”
“Deal.”
He hangs up before I can think too hard about it.
An hour later, Falcon’s truck kicks up dust behind me as we drive between patches of dead grass and wild sage.
The old barn appears like an afterthought. It looks different in the daylight. Less spooky and more forlorn. Sunlight catches on something pale along the ground, and for a moment I think it’s bones.
I shake my head to clear it.
Falcon pulls up beside me and rolls down his window. “You’re kidding,” he says, leaning out. “You dragged me all the way out here for this?”
I shut off my engine. “What, you don’t like my architectural vision?”
He furrows his brow. “It’s a ruin.”
I shrug. “Which makes it private.”
He climbs out, stretching, his prison knuckle tattoos catching the light. “Private and haunted, maybe.” He takes a few steps forward and stops short. “Wait a second. I’ve been here.”
My pulse jumps. “When?”
He squints, hands on his hips. “Before I went to prison. Maybe a month before. I came across it while riding. Thought it’d be a good place to camp out or get some thinking done without people breathing down my neck. Dad caught wind of it somehow and told me to stay away.”
“Why?”
“Said the old buildings on the property weren’t safe. Could collapse any time.”
I glance at the barn. Yeah, it’s sagging, but it’s not near collapse. “That didn’t seem to bother him about any of the others.”
Falcon shrugs. “Guess not.”
“Did he ever come out here?”
“Not that I saw. But…” He gestures around us. “You see those?”
At first, I don’t. Then the breeze shifts, and I catch the pale shapes around the foundation—delicate flowers blooming.
I crouch to look closer. “Moonflowers,” I murmur.
Falcon arches an eyebrow. “You know plants now?”
“App.” I hold up my phone and take a photo. The identification screen glows bright against the dirt. “They only bloom at night. Used to grow all over the southern fence line, back when Grandma was alive. She said they reminded her of home.”
They remind me of Daniela. Beautiful and soft, but dangerous if you pick too many.
Well, only the Devil’s Trumpet moonflower is dangerous. These are morning glories that only look like dangerous moonflowers.
Still…
I swallow hard. I should’ve called Daniela last night. I should’ve gone back.
Falcon kicks at a patch of gravel. “Are you going to stand there all day getting poetic, or do you want to see what’s inside?”
I gesture inside. “After you.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’m not your canary.”
But he goes first anyway. I knew he would. He’s always been the quintessential big brother. The protector to my fixer.
The door groans when we push it open. Inside, the air is thick with dust and the scent of rot. Shafts of light cut through gaps in the roof, catching on cobwebs.
“Watch your step,” Falcon mutters. “Floorboards look soft.”
He’s right. The boards bow under our weight, but they hold.
I sweep my flashlight over the space. Nothing jumps out. No drug paraphernalia. No bloodstains. Just emptiness.
“What’s this?” I ask, nodding toward the corner.
Falcon joins me. “Old fencing. Probably from when they expanded the north paddock.”
“Then why drag it all the way out here?”
He scratches the side of his head. “Because Dad was weird about storage?”
I grunt, unconvinced.
We circle the perimeter, my eyes peeled for anything that justifies Reyes’s interest. There’s an old table, a broken chair, a coil of rope hardened with age. Nothing that screams burn this to the ground.
Falcon leans against the doorframe, watching me. “You want to tell me what this is really about?”
“What do you mean?”
He smirks. “You’ve never cared about ‘guesthouses.’”
I swallow. “I’m branching out.”
“Bullshit.”
I meet his stare. “Drop it.”
He holds my gaze for a moment but then nods once. “Fine. But whatever this is, make sure it doesn’t bite you in the ass.”
Too late.
I glance around again, every instinct prickling. There’s something wrong about this place, something under the surface. Maybe Dad’s warning about structural integrity was just a convenient lie, a way to keep us out of here.