Red Rum: A Rosie Casket Mystery R.M. Wild (inspirational books .txt) 📖

“I’ve been authorized to use some of my client’s cash to buy you a car. A brand new car. You can leave straight from here.”

I closed my eyes and shook my head, imagining my flight to the desert or Alaska or Mexico. “I need to say goodbye. To Eldritch. To my foster father.”

“Sorry, too dangerous,” he said.

I tilted the bottle toward me and watched the red liquid clinging to the inside of the cap run slowly down the neck and disappear behind the label.

“Mull it over,” Kendall said.

I released my grip on the bottle. “I don’t need to. You’re right. I will sign.”

He turned around, his eyes brightened. “You will?”

“Yes. Anything to get out of here. Away from you.”

“Don’t be like that.”

“I thought you were my friend.”

“I am. I’ve worked hard to put this deal together.”

“You’re extorting me.”

“I’m not. I wish you could see it from both sides,” he said. “I tried to treat you well and came up with a solution much better than my client was inclined to do.”

“Let’s just get this over with. Where do I sign?”

“I don’t want there to be any bad blood between us. I like you, Rosie. I always have.”

“Too late.”

Frowning, he returned to the table and opened his briefcase again. He put the papers in front of my chair and laid a pen on top. Then he took a small video camera from his briefcase and placed it on the far side of the table.

“What’s that for?”

“It’s the same one I used to film Matt’s funeral.”

“So what? Is this supposed to be my funeral?”

He laughed. “No. It’s for insurance. This is our official settlement. Sometimes we videotape the signings for witnesses who can’t be present. It helps validate their signature in case…problems arise,” Kendall said. He reached across the table and pulled three sheets off the stack of documents. “I need you to sign the top one, and initial the next three.”

“You’re not going to read them to me?”

“I thought you were a very good reader.”

“I am, but this stuff might as well be in a different language.”

“It’s an agreement of sale. Standard contract. All the boiler plate stuff. My client will pay the closing costs and the deed transfer and all the other details. All you have to do is sign.”

I glanced at the camera, slid a hand in my pocket, and turned on my phone, hoping I had a little bit of juice left. I needed some insurance of my own, insurance that this creep was extorting me. I felt for the edge of the screen, then approximated the appropriate distance for the camera app and pressed the screen with my thumb. It wouldn’t be able to record any video, but at least I’d have audio—audio I could take to the police to clear my name.

“I haven’t bought any houses before, but I’m assuming there’s usually an exchange of funds,” I said.

“A wire transfer, yes,” Kendall said. “But this is different. No mortgage, all cash.”

“Where’s the money?”

“Sign the papers and I’ll bring it to you.”

“And if I don’t?”

“We already discussed that.”

“I changed my mind. No deal unless I see the money. I want to count it. I also want a brand new car sitting in that driveway.”

“I don’t have the money here.”

“Then get it.”

“I can’t just get that kind of money. It will take a few days. There are withdrawal limits.”

I crossed my arms. “Do you think I’m stupid? Do you think I’m going to sign without seeing the money? Those are my conditions. No money, no deal.”

Kendall put up his hands in defeat and looked at me hard. “You would have made a good lawyer, Rosie. Even back in high school, you were a force to be reckoned with.”

“Sorry. I prefer not to crap where I eat.”

He smiled again and gathered up the papers and put them back into the briefcase. “I will go talk to my client and be back in a few hours.”

I set my face stern. “Make it quick.”

“I will,” he said. “In the meantime, don’t go anywhere. I’m watching you.”

41

As soon as Kendall left, I checked my phone. Five percent power left. I had drained it even further by trying to bait him into saying he wouldn’t allow me to leave, but I hadn’t managed to record anything useful.

I listened to his car engine start and then went to the French doors and pressed my face to the glass. The rain was coming down, lighter than before, but no mildly-ruined picnic, and the Mercedes’s headlights swept across the field, lighting the falling rain like pieces of silver.

On the lake, the fog had thickened and was sitting atop the agitated water like lumpy, gray pillows. I had to find out what was in that shack. If the devil-footed chair in my room was indeed the same type of chair as the one in the photo of Chrissy, I was deathly afraid of what I might find there.

Still, I had to know.

The French doors leaked at my feet. I leaned forward on my toes, the warping hardwood creaking.

Screw the cameras. It was time to make a move.

I yanked the doors open. The rain got loud, a sliding curtain of water right in front of my face. I had no idea how long Kendall would be gone and didn’t know if I had the strength to drag the canoe all the way down to the dock, so I was going to have to get wet.

I ran down the deck stairs and sprinted across the field, the grass wet and slippery, little splashes on my shins with every bounding step. My glasses smeared and I wiped them on my sleeve, but it was no use in the rain, my vision as cloudy as a second fog.

I ran down to the dock and pounded to the end, each step making the boards shudder and quake, the whole structure threatening to collapse. I could complain all I wanted about my dock, but at least it wasn’t as bad