Her grandmother leveled her with a stare. “Do you have an issue with that?”
“Yes.” She nodded vigorously.
“I do not care. You will be there, or I will drag you from your bed.”
“Sounds great,” Riley said dryly.
“Gabe,” Wander said softly. “The girls and I would love it if you’d join us tonight. We’re making kombucha.”
Gabe opened his mouth, hearts in his eyes. But the cloud of doom cut him off.
“Gabriel doesn’t have time to socialize,” Elanora cut in. “He has much to make up for since detouring from his quest.”
Wander dipped her head, disappointment radiating from her.
Elanora pushed her chair back and rose. “I am retiring for the night.”
“Need any help with your nightgown?” Fred offered hopefully.
“Not from a man with so little control over his digestive system,” she said and swept out of the room.
“Dad didn’t go next door to murder the neighbor, did he?” Riley asked, standing up.
Blossom poked her head out of the fridge, a bottle of wine held to her lips. “No. We have a plan.”
“You have a plan to murder your next-door neighbor?” Nick asked. He put his hands on Riley’s shoulders and dropped his chin to the top of her head.
“Of course not,” Blossom assured him. “That whackadoo isn’t conserving her water. She’s got those sprinklers running in the middle of the night for hours during a drought. Can you believe that? Roger’s gonna get footage of it and report her to the municipality. Does anyone else want wine?”
10
9:50 p.m., Thursday, August 13
Crickets chirped maniacally in the sweltering dark as Nick took the dog outside for a quick game of fetch and one last pee. From his vantage point on the edge of the parking lot, it looked as though every light in the mansion was on. No one over the age of eighty seemed capable of turning off a light or locking a door.
Or building a ramp. The project was on its third week and was still nothing more than a pile of lumber and meatball sub wrappers.
Burt bounded out of the thigh-high weeds of the property next door, a stick clutched in his mouth instead of the Frisbee Nick had thrown. It was their tradition. He threw a fetch-approved dog toy, and Burt returned with something else.
Burt spit out the stick at his feet and trembled with joy.
Nick picked up the limb, gave it a toss into the overgrowth, and thought about how weird life was.
Earlier this year, he was assuring his Aunt Fotoula that he preferred being single while she pinched his cheek and told him about a “nice girl” who worked in her accounting office. Now, he was living with a nice girl thathepicked out without any arm-twisting in one of the big houses he’d passed thousands of times as a kid, wondering what kind of people lived behind iron gates and manicured lawns.
Front Street in Harrisburg was home to several fancy-ass mansions with river views and large lots. For decades they’d housed wealthy families before the rich had moved out of the city, leaving their homes behind to be turned into commercial offices for lawyers and associations. Several of the buildings had seen better days. A few of them—like the Tudor nightmare next door—needed a bulldozer.
He looked up to the third floor, where a responsible number of lights were on. Riley Thorn was the responsible sort. And for some reason, he liked that about her.
Burt bounded back, this time clutching a six-foot stretch of orange safety netting in his mouth.
“I don’t even want to know where that came from,” Nick decided. A slow breeze chose that moment to lazily stir the air, bringing with it the scent of something rotting. “Ah, Harrisburg, you old charmer. Come on, Burt.”
They headed back inside via the front door, and each separated to follow through with another nightly ritual. Nick checked the doors and windows to make sure they were locked while Burt wandered off to sniff around the kitchen for crumbs and the occasional floor pizza.
He was just about to hit the stairs when he heard a wheeze and a pained, “One hundred forty-six.”
Curious, he found Gabe’s door ajar.
