Page 112 of Dust Storm

I froze mid-stride and blinked.

“Miss Cass!” Gracie shrieked as she dropped a handful of markers on the rug. She scrambled away from the tattooed man that was pinned to the floor, and bolted toward me.

“Ah-ah-ah—” I stopped her with a single finger. “What are you girls doing home? You’re supposed to be in school.”

“We were kidnapped,” Bree said casually as she capped a pink marker, then grabbed a blue one and continued to use the shirtless man as a human coloring book.

The Parent Trapplayed on the TV in the background, and everyone seemed to be acting like this was a normal afternoon activity.

Deciding that no one was in imminent danger, I decided it was best not to ask questions. I dropped the papers on the kitchen table. “Right. Have a nice abduction.”

“C’mere, Miss Cass,” Gracie said, grabbing my hand. “You gotta meet our funcle.”

“I don’t think your father lets you use that kind of language yet.”

“Not—” her voice dropped to a whisper “—thatF-word.” She yanked my arm until I relented and let her lead me to the living room. “This is Funcle Ray.”

The shirtless man, who was sprawled out prone on the living room floor, lifted his head and looked up at me. “Yep. Totally get it now.”

“Get what?” Bree asked.

“Nothing, squirt,” the man said without taking his eyes off me.

I had the distinct feeling I knew what he “got.”

I twisted my ankle, showing off the sharp stiletto. “It’s not as fine as a tattoo needle, but I can poke some holes in you if need be.”

He grinned from ear to ear.

I raised an eyebrow. “Does need be?”

He chuckled. “No, ma’am.”

“You’re supposed to say, ‘no, my queen,’ Gracie whispered.

“Yeah, I’ll leave that to your dad,” he said with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. He stretched an arm across the floor, as if he was going to shake hands with my foot. “Funcle Ray at your service. Pleasure to meet you.”

“It means ‘fun uncle,’” Gracie said, filling me in as she grabbed a marker. “Wanna color with us?”

“Ah.” I nodded. “The other Griffith brother.”

“So you have heard of me,” he said, dropping his head and returning to the prone position so as not to disturb the girls.

“Aren’t you a little old to be coloring?” I said to the girls.

“It’s tradition. We always color in Uncle Ray’s tattoos.”

“He got them for us,” Gracie said with a grin.

Most of Ray’s back and arms had been filled in with washable markers, turning his black and white outlines into full color.

“Stay in the lines, Picasso,” he said when Gracie got a little marker-happy. “At least you wildebeests are better at coloring now than you were when you were three.” He stretched his left arm out. “You missed a spot on my shoulder.”

This family just kept getting weirder and weirder.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Does your father know you’re not in school right now?”

Bree clammed up.

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