Or worse, maybe Gabby Newsome isn’t running herself anymore.
She grips my wrists tighter. “You better not tell!” she screams into my face. Specks of spit flying from her mouth.
“Let go!” I twist my wrists and wrench myself free, frantically distancing myself from her.
“You’ll burn in hell if you tell!” She charges toward me, angry fists shaking above her head. I trip, knocking against the table of food. Mints scatter across the floor. Scrambling to get away, I twist and turn and race out the door. “Burn in hell!” These are the last words I hear screamed at my back as I fly down the family’s private stairs.
I thrust through the kitchen, past the surprised staff, and rush out the back door. I’m not a half step outside when I’m tossed back by the sight of Stone Rutledge’s pristine red Corvette parked right in front of me.
Lorelei casually pulls her shopping bags from the back seat of her father’s car. “Oh, perfect, can you help us with these—” She freezes at the sight of me. Her face twists to rage.
It’s not until I hear the bags hit the ground that I see her fist flying through the air. It cracks against my cheek with a wicked crunch.
Stars spark.
Darkness drops over my sight.
Gravel from the driveway digs into my elbows.
“Stay the hell away from our home, you freaking psycho!” Lorelei screams over me. I press my palm to my throbbing cheek. My head a clogged, dizzy mess. Rebecca Rutledge has stepped out of the car now and is just standing there, glaring down at me with a smug look. Perfectly happy to watch her daughter assault me.
The back door swings open, and Gabby flies out. “Devil’s Seed Child!” she screams joyfully at the top of her lungs.
“My brother’s dead because of you!” Lorelei kicks me in the shins, and I curl to block her. “And you show up at my house!” She kicks me again.
“You are a naughty, naughty girl!” Gabby stomps her foot on the stoop with every word.
My hands tremble from rattled nerves. The pristine front grill of Stone’s car a menacing smile as they both scream at me.
Lorelei bends over, grabs me by the shirt, and pulls my face to hers. “You think you can come here and do what? Beg for forgiveness?” she asks, but I don’t answer; I can’t find any words. Her necklace swings violently at her throat. “You come around here again and I’ll—”
My hand snakes out, and I capture the gold coin dangling from her ribbon necklace. “The scales of justice,” I whisper as I see the image. A tiny constellation of stars diamond around the image of a woman holding the scales.
Lorelei steps back, confusion edging across her face. She tucks the ribbon inside her shirt protectively.
Find the scales of justice. She holds the truth. These were Adaire’s words just days before she died. Lorelei shrinks back, fear spiking in her eyes. I push myself up to stand.
One of the cooking staff bursts through the kitchen door. “What’s going on out here?” A few others bustle out the door behind him. He assesses the situation; his eyes jump with recognition when they land on me.
“Call the cops, you nitwits!” Rebecca barks at them.
But I’ve already turned to leave, headed down the hill toward Clementine’s, where I parked Adaire’s car.
THIRTEEN
Let Sleeping Dogs Lie
“What in the hell do these crazy riddles have to do with anything?” Davis shoves himself out from under Miss Belinda Jones’s jacked-up bumper with a smooth roll on the mechanic dolly. Grease smears across his forehead. Black stains his rough-hewn fingers. He stretches open his palm toward the rubber mallet. I hand it to him.
“I don’t exactly know yet. But they have to mean something.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well—”
“Oh, hey,” he interrupts. “I almost forgot. Wyatt called here looking for you.” His tone drops a bit. “He said Violet wants you to bring Adaire’s car to the Watering Hole tonight. She’s got a buyer.”
“Awesome,” I grumble, as I’ll now be without a reliable set of wheels since I still don’t have enough cash to fix my car. Davis slides himself back under.
Harvey’s Metal Boneyard is a giant corrugated shed stuffed full of rusty parts, stacks of old tires, and a hoard of outdated equipment. The Yancey’s junkyard garage used to be the main place you could get car parts before they opened the auto store over in Mercer. Pick what you needed from the lot, and Mr. Harvey would work his magic. After Davis’s father passed, he resigned himself to the fact that as the third generation Yancey, he would have to take over the family business. But Adaire, to Mrs. Yancey’s approval, convinced Davis he was too smart to spend his life as a grease monkey in a dying junkyard business, not with his love for science and medicine. Next to the greasy tools and soda cooler against the wall are Davis’s EMT-training books. During the day, he works on cars and in night school, he learns how to work on bodies. I’m pretty sure his final exams are coming soon. Something I don’t want to think about.
Hanging on the wall between the screwdrivers and wrenches is Blue’s old collar. Adaire and I had no idea that the dog we saved that day would find a home for many years with her future sweetheart. That dog was a good boy, once he got used to you.
As my eyes scan the room, they settle on a package, unopened, beneath Davis’s textbooks. I slide the books slightly to the side. The package doesn’t say who it’s from, but I don’t need to know because I recognize Adaire’s handwriting. A sweet pink ribbon ties the bundle up tight. Davis’s greasy fingerprints patter all over the outside of it, probably from the many times he’s picked it up, ready to open it, only to change his mind. Maybe he should save it for his birthday next year, a belated present.
The old diner bar stool creaks when I sit on it. I hold a cold Orange Crush bottle against my throbbing cheek and tell him the rest of my Gabby adventure.
Davis rolls out from underneath the car and pins me with a scrutinizing look. “Gabby said she got the glass droplet from a dead deer. What’s that got to do with Adaire?” His voice edges with anger. There’s a thin line of patience he’s holding on to. If I tug too hard, that line will snap.
“Well,” I say, in a more tender tone, “it’s been in our family for years. Where else would Gabby have got it from?” I hold up the blue stopper to the light. “Droplet of rain, Adaire called it in her note. Gabby called it that, too.”
“You’re not making any sense,” he growls.
“Gabby wasn’t making any sense,” I say, more to myself, then I snap the lid off with the bottle opener and take a long, refreshing chug.
Out front, a crow lands on a rusty oil barrel and stares directly into the garage. I sit taller, unsure if it’s Rook or just an ordinary crow. It pecks around on top of the barrel like it’s trying to get at something.
Davis gives the bird an uninterested glance before he rolls back under the car. He bangs out a few muffled thuds with the rubber mallet.
