Page 4 of The Billionaire Experience

She pulled alongside the curb and parked in front of Jean’s house, taking a moment to admire the warm, orange-and-red brick home on the other side of the street. There was a stately maple towering over a long, narrow backyard, a pine tree that had outgrown its corner at the front of the lot but provided excellent shade for the front window, and a driveway that led past the house to a one-car garage and attached workshop.

Before she’d moved out, solar panels had been added to conserve energy. She’d been excited about the upgrade, and Ike, who indulged her every whim, had scheduled to have them installed almost instantly.

Now, the McMansion next door cast a shadow over the roof of her former home, making the solar panels all but useless. Its second story towered, seeming to boast about its whitewashed brick and modern charcoal gray roof. The house that used to stand on the lot next door had been a squatty brick home like the one next to it, and in Reagan’s opinion, cozier than its successor. Who the hell wanted to clean seven bedrooms anyway?

She climbed out of her Ram and spotted a car in the driveway of her grandfather’s former home. A shiny black Mercedes SUV sat outside the closed garage. It had temporary plates, meaning it was either brand new or new to the owner, and absolutely gleamed in the sunshine. She was instantly curious about the new person (or persons) inhabiting her former home but turned toward Jean’s house instead.

Before she could knock on the door, it swung inward. Jean, her short gray hair neatly brushed, her clothing modern and stylish, greeted her with a hug. “Ray!”

“Hi, Jean.” She patted the older woman’s back and then stepped inside. The house was too warm for the sunny but cool day. “Whew, you’re right. It’s stifling in here. Your thermostat must be on the fritz.”

“Nah. I was cold earlier and forgot to turn it back down.” Jean sped across her living room, agile thanks to her daily walks around the block, and pressed a button. The heat clicked off in response. “I called because I wanted to talk to you about the man who moved into Ike’s house.”

She whispered “Ike’s house” as if she were referring to a holy shrine.

“You called me out here to talk about the new owner?” Reagan had stayed with her grandfather last night, so she hadn’t gone out of her way to come over. She hadn’t been inconvenienced but was peeved at having been lured here under false pretenses.

Rather, she should be peeved. In truth, she was eager to hear any news about the new neighbor she’d been wondering about.

“Ya gotta see him to believe him, sweetheart. I made an apple pie and fresh coffee for you. Your time won’t be wasted.” Jean zipped into the kitchen.

Reagan stole another look at the house across the street. She didn’t see any movement inside, though a light was on. She met Jean in the kitchen. “I always make time for pie.”

Jean, plates in hand, instructed Reagan to carry the mugs back into the living room.

“Now we can watch to see what he does next.” She forked a bite of pie into her mouth, her wrinkled smile full of secrets.

Reagan took a bite of her pie as well, the spicy-sweet flavor of cinnamon and apples bursting on her tongue. And homemade crust? Heaven on a plate. “This is the best pie you’ve ever made.”

“I doubt that. It’s been a long time since you’ve stopped by to have a slice, so the memory’s not fresh. When were you last in the neighborhood?”

“Around six weeks ago, maybe?” The next bite of pie went down slower thanks to the lump in her throat. No maybe about it, she’d been avoiding her former home since Ike had called to tell her it sold. The buyer had made a full-price offer without a walkthrough before signing on the dotted line. She’d been suspicious-slash-curious about him ever since.

“He’s single. I think. He’s been puttering around in that house for a week now and I haven’t seen a missus.”

“Only a week?”

“Yep. It sat empty save a moving company and a few delivery trucks. I thought the guy there to sign for ’em was the owner, but he was a young kid, twenty or so. The real deal showed up this week, and the next time the kid came by, the owner of the house handed him an envelope and the kid left. Money for a job well done, I assume. Unless they’re undercover cops or in the witness protection program.”

Reagan laughed, but Jean didn’t join her. “Have you seen any other evidence that he’s hiding something?”

“None, but that doesn’t mean he’s not.” The older woman leaned back on her floral sofa and waved a hand as if she hadn’t trotted out a conspiracy theory seconds ago. “He’s been carrying in bags from Lowe’s and Home Depot and then carrying them back out again.”

“That’s not suspicious. I do it all the time.” How many times had she purchased the wrong-sized screw or furnace filter? Too many to count.

The front door of her old home opened, and a man appeared. Well, he half-appeared. Most of him was blocked by a sizable kitchen sink. Sunlight glanced off the shiny stainless steel, blinding Reagan for a second. She abandoned her pie to walk to the wide picture window for a better look.

The man had broad shoulders, thick brown hair, and a mustache hiding what she suspected was a frown. Biceps bulged beneath the sleeves of a tight cotton T-shirt a moment before he tossed the sink onto the yard at his feet.

“Oh my,” Jean, who was suddenly standing next to her, said. “Well, this is new.”

“I assume that’s him.” He was younger than she’d expected.

“That’s him, all right.”

Hands propped on his hips, he surveyed the sink on the ground. Reagan didn’t know what she’d expected him to do next, but when he turned and walked back into the house, she knew that hadn’t been it.

He reappeared a moment later, a bottle of beer in hand. After taking a long swig, his free hand on his hip, he assessed his options. He didn’t swear, yell, or kick the stainless steel bowl but stood over it in quiet contemplation.

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