The Follower Kate Doughty (general ebook reader .txt) 📖

other Coles’ combined—she couldn’t exactly borrow Rudy’s. So, early the following morning, Amber and his dad had headed out, first thing, to buy another laptop. Sure, it is another expense that the Coles can’t really afford—much like the cost of repainting the exterior of the turret—but what does another few thousand dollars matter when they are so far in the hole already? And Mom has a point: They can’t afford to delay a sponsored post because of Amber’s computer mishap.

Mishap. That’s what she is calling it. Not a break-in, not vandalism; a mishap. As if someone accidentally dropped a bucket of paint out their window. No, Rudy thinks. There is more to it. There were three deaths in the Tremont house, plus the Alex Grable account, and now this. Someone had been here.

Rudy can’t stop thinking about it. Even his morning workout feels off—he’s too preoccupied with, well, everything Tremont.

The hardwood arrives around nine, while Rudy and his family are still waiting for the police.

They’ve barely begun unloading when something else goes wrong. “Robert! Where did you put the key?” Mrs. Cole’s voice echoes through the house. Mr. Cole looks at Rudy over the wood they’re carrying and shakes his head.

Mrs. Cole steps onto the porch in time to see the headshake. She gives a very exaggerated eye roll. “Great. Who did it, then? Did a ghost do it? Rudy, if this is a prank—”

Amber calls from the kitchen. “It’s by the sink, Mom!”

Mrs. Cole grabs the key and returns once Rudy has set the wood down, giving him a brief side hug. “Sorry—I’m sorry. We just really don’t have the time to waste on this renovation.” She’s right. This house is larger than any other project they’d taken on. Aside from the grand foyer and kitchen, the first floor of the house also has a formal dining room, a parlor, a study, and a den. All of which are now bare, thanks to yesterday’s “hunks moving junk.”

Rudy notices that his mom’s eyes keep straying to the driveway. There is no police car to be seen. Cecily and Amber join them on the porch. A gray blur darts about between Rudy’s feet and he pounces on Speckles himself.

“Cecily!” he says, but he’s only half upset. He might smack-talk Speckles, but now that he’s cupped in Rudy’s hands he just seems so tiny. And those big brown eyes . . . Rudy feels the chaos of the past day calm, just a little bit. He smiles.

“See! I knew you loved him!” Cecily says. “I’ll put him back—there’s my little escape artist!”

“Good catch, Rudy,” Amber says. “I don’t think Speckles would last long in these woods.”

“Nope. Basically hawk takeout,” Rudy jokes, and Cecily admonishes her rabbit as she carries him back inside.

Rudy is about to retreat back inside to do some more googling about the history of the house when his mom starts talking about work. “Now, you’ve all seen the weekly spreadsheet, right? We’ve got a couple posts going out today and a few more we’re scheduled to shoot. Let’s do a few while the light’s good out front, then maybe some in-progress ones in the kitchen.”

Rudy rolls his eyes. “Do we have to?” He’d so much rather play investigator than livestream host. But his mom just ruffles his hair. Oh, no—she is not going to get him to shoot another boring renovation post. He speaks up before she can continue. “I’d rather brainstorm ghost content for the livestream. You said I could.”

Mrs. Cole thinks about it. Her eyes stray toward the red-stained tower, and the rest of the family’s follow. “You can brainstorm,” she says slowly. “But you have to come to me with a script before the livestream. If—and only if—I approve, you can mention it. We don’t want to be offensive. So don’t mention the ghost by name, don’t connect it to any real history here—no specifics about this house that might dissuade potential buyers, you understand? When buyers ask, it’s all a story for social media. We made it all up. Bring me the script when you have it.”

Rudy fights the urge to scowl. A script? He has to write a script? Can’t she just trust his judgment?

“What about the Alex Grable account then?” Rudy asks. “What if people ask about it on the livestream? We got so many DMs about it yesterday.”

“Don’t call it that,” Cecily says. Rudy makes a mental note to check himself; Cecily has seemed really freaked lately.

“Our follower, then, whatever,” Rudy says.

“Don’t worry about what you’re calling them, because you’re going to ignore the account,” his mom orders. “Don’t mention them in the DMs, don’t mention them on the posts. Final.” She holds Rudy’s gaze until he nods. Fine. Then she continues. “So, where were we? Today’s posts. Yes. A couple of those are for some sunglasses sponsorship; we need the money if we’re going to keep fixing up this house. Ooh—you three should go outside while it’s still overgrown, do some sunbathing shots. Amber?”

Amber nods. Rudy opens his mouth to argue but shuts it; Amber already looks so exhausted. He wonders how much of her computer hard drive had been recovered and how much work on their posts she’ll have to make up. So he doesn’t argue as they get ready. A few minutes later he and his sisters are outside in swimsuits and beach towels, stretched out on the weedy lawn.

Rudy gives Cecily a look. Her level of enthusiasm is about where his is: nonexistent. Rudy is itching to get back to work, to learn more about the house—and he’s here, stuck playing pretty boy.

“This is perfect,” Amber says, obviously trying to lighten the mood. “Something like . . . suburban wilderness or whatever. We can think of something catchy, play up on the fact that everything is, well . . .”

“Creepy and overgrown?” Cecily asks.

Rudy can’t take it anymore. He has to ask his sisters what their thoughts are on what the kids at the hardware store told them.

“What do you think about the other