“I told you not to drink that Gatorade,” Crawford tells him. “Pee in the bottle.”
“The circle of life.” Faulkner unscrews the cap.
“Crawford, he’s disgusting. Can we kill him? Why is he even here?”
“Blackmail is surprisingly effective.” Faulkner has that demented smile on. “I know you don’t want Salinger to know about this—you stalking this girl—especially since you want to upgrade the NFL stadium. Maybe if you didn’t spend so much money on art, you would have money to self-finance it.”
“I have money, you little twerp.” I snarl at him.
“Millionaire Next Dooris on sale—Oh, there’s someone! A man.”
“It’s just Knox.” I scowl and sit back on the roof, watching through the back window of Winnie’s house as hesucks all of the oxygen out of the kitchen as Winnie’s parents and his mother fawn all over him.
“‘My handsome boy,’” Faulkner mimics as he reads lips. “‘Brinley’s not taking care of you, is she? No one takes as good care of you as Mama does.’ We’re not about to watch some sort of incest porn, are we?”
“If we are, I definitely don’t need your commentary on it.” I peer into my spyglass.
We watch as Knox helps rearrange furniture that his mother insists is in the wrong spot.
“Winnie’s going to have a fit when she gets back.”
“Where is she?” Faulkner asks.
I check the tracker on her car. “Still at that bar.”
“Uh-oh. Did she find someone better than you?” Faulkner snickers.
“No, she’s at a wedding meeting,” I hiss. “Here’s the bridesmaid dress.” I show my brothers.
“Yikes. Guess the bride hates all her friends.”
It’s dark now.Winnie’s parents are in bed. Knox’s mother is watching TV in Winnie’s bedroom.
“Car incoming,” Faulkner whispers.
“It’s just Winnie.”
We follow the light of her phone as she meanders through the house to the kitchen. See her talking to Fidget. See her heading to the laundry room.
“Wait, who the hell is that?” Faulkner whispers.
There’s someone climbing over the fence in the backyard.
“Shoot him, Crawford,” I demand.
“I’m not going to shoot him.”
“Hey, it’s you,” Faulkner whispers.
“Shit, you getting this on camera?” I whisper.
“Where did he come from?” Faulkner muses.
“Some stakeout expert you are,” I snarl at Crawford.
“Super Bowl tickets don’t pay for the whole stakeout crew,” he retorts.
“Dammit, Winnie’s in danger.”
