Vero chuckled darkly. “That makes you suspect number one in column two. Think hard. Who else?”
“Steven didn’t have any other assets. Every penny he had went into the farm.”
My phone chimed. Vero dove to grab it before I could stop her. “Ooooh, I bet it’s Nick,” she said with a wicked grin. Her face fell as she thumbed on the screen.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Who is it?”
“FedUp… she posted a reply on the thread.”
I scooted close, reading over her shoulder.
FedUp:@EasyClean and @Anonymous2, Thank you for your replies. You’re both very kind to offer, and I am interested in chatting with either of you, but it’s a stressful time of year. There’s so much to do before Christmas, and so few days left to handle it all. I’m sure you understand. Perhaps we can connect after it’s over? When you’ve wrapped up your holiday plans, I hope one of you will send me another message.
Vero frowned at the screen. “I am interested in chatting with either of you…?What’s that supposed to mean?”
I reread the post.There’s so much to do before Christmas, and so few days left to handle it all.“I think she’s hiring us both. Whoever handles Steven gets the money.”FedUpwas increasing the stakes, winner takes all. Then adding a ticking clock by giving us a deadline. “She wants it done by Christmas.”
“That’s more than three weeks away.”
A new post appeared at the bottom of the thread.
EasyClean:@FedUp, I completely understand that time is of the essence. My preparations are already under way. You’ll hear from me soon.
Vero was right. Money was the biggest motivator of all. And ifEasyCleanthought she had a lot of money to lose, I had no doubt she’d work quickly. Which meant I had to be quicker. I had to figure outFedUp’s true identity and persuade her to call off the job.
Snapping the cap back on the marker, I considered the possible plotlines unfolding in front of me.
Three motives.
Three directions the story could go.
But only one setting they all had in common.
I rolled up the paper and got to my feet. “Get dressed. We’re going to the farm.”
CHAPTER 14
The last time Vero and I had driven this dirt road in the dark, we had three thousand feet of Cling Wrap, a flashlight, and a shovel in the trunk, along with a solid plan for moving a decomposing body. This time, I didn’t feel nearly as prepared.
“Give me your credit card,” Vero whispered. We’d parked her Charger in the shadows behind Steven’s trailer before we’d realized we had no way of getting in.
“Why my credit card? Why can’t you use one of yours?”
“I don’t have one.” She reached back, her hand open and waiting as I dug out my American Express card. I slapped it into her palm, angling my phone’s flashlight closer to the lock as she wedged the card between the door and the frame.
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
“Of course I know what I’m doing. I saw it on YouTu—” The credit card snapped. Vero extracted what was left of it and held it up to the light.
I yanked it from her hand and jammed it back in my coat pocket. “There’s got to be another way in.”
“Short of busting a window?”
We’d already tried all the locks and the set of keys we’d foundtucked in the visor of the run-down Ford Steven used as a farm truck. I knelt in the mulch by the door, shining my light over the mums and winter cabbages, searching for the missing piece of my credit card. This was pointless, maybe we should just…
My light glinted off the metal nozzle of a hose bib.
“What are you doing?” Vero asked as I stared at the front of the trailer, my light making a slow pass over the siding and trim. Steven had to have a key hidden out here somewhere; he always did. My ex-husband was no Boy Scout, but he was always prepared. His uncanny planning and organizational skills were how he managed to live with one woman while sleeping with another, sliding in and out of doors unnoticed. He always had an exit strategy.
