—Cody to Mable
Mable
I turned my phone off as I shoved it into a hiding spot in Cody’s truck that she’d let me borrow.
Birdee shoved hers into the same spot and rubbed her good hand on her good leg. “Are we doing the right thing?”
I clenched and unclenched my fists in my gloves. “We have to talk to her. See what she knows.”
“And you’re sure I have to go?” she asked, sounding glum.
“You don’t have to go, Birdee,” I admitted.
She blew out a disgusted breath. “I owe you this.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” I corrected her gently. “We were both victims here.”
“Yeah, but if I wasn’t such a bitch to you, we might have figured this out years ago instead of now, when shit’s hitting the fan,” she pointed out. “We both should’ve asked more questions, but I spent a lot of time with her. Albeit forcefully. I should’ve seen the signs. This is my chance to make it right.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I repeated myself. “Now, let’s get this over with.”
She and I both bailed out of the truck that we’d decided to park several businesses over and walked to the hotel that she and my dad were staying in—her much slower than me thanks to the crutches.
My dad’s friend owned the hotel and had apparently allowed him to stay here for free while they got this figured out.
My dad had a lot of friends like that. Ones that were willing to give him the shirt off their backs.
My dad wasn’t the same type of friend.
If the roles were reversed, he would’ve hung them out to dry.
Once they knew everything, though, I doubted that they stayed. My dad wasn’t a good enough friend for them to stick by.
“What room number did Cody say that they were in?” I asked.
“Three oh six,” Birdee answered. “They have an entrance off the back…there.”
The hotel itself was older. And there were parts of it that they’d turned into long-term housing, giving them separate entrances into the units that meant they didn’t have to go through the main lobby.
The few cameras that were there—which weren’t all that many in the first place—faced the parking area where most of the guests parked to come into the building.
Since we hadn’t entered that part of the building, no one knew we were here.
It also helped that it was late in the day, and so cold that only crazy people were out.
“I hate Montana,” Birdee grumbled as a particularly rough, cutting wind swept through the parking lot, kicking up fresh powdered snow in its wake. “I seriously think I could thrive in Florida. The warm weather. The sun. The beaches. The welcoming people. Does Florida count as being in the South?”
I shivered despite having three layers on under my big-ass coat. “I think so. I think everything below the Mason-Dixon line is considered the South. Why?”
“Because in my romance novels, they always portray ‘good southern boys’ as the crème de la crème. I want that.”
I smiled behind my scarf. “I didn’t know that you read romance novels, Birdee.”
She surprised me all the time.
I also found myself mentally smacking myself in the forehead because we had a lot in common.
Reading was one of those things.
