Page 67 of Smith

“Drifter Five for life,” she chirped. “That’s capital D for drifter, five spelled out, four is the number four. All one word, no spacing. Here, I wrote it down for you.”

A piece of white copy paper sailed across the table, not making it to Aria. She reached out, slid the paper closer, and looked down at it.

Seeing it written was worse than hearing Kira say it.

Drifter Five.

For Life.

Fucking shit.

Why did that make my heart rate tick up?

“Thanks,” Aria muttered, completely oblivious.

“What’d you find on Billy?” I swung back to why we were in this meeting.

“Nothing exciting,” Kira announced. “William Preston Rice. Forty-five. Everything Brittney said checked out. But she left out the police being frequent visitors at the farm before Billy’s parents split. No arrests for any of the Rices but lots of domestic disturbance calls. Billy now lives in Talbot county in a small town called Trappe. He has an LLC in his name—literally his name, Billy Rice, LLC. According to his articles of organization he’s a caretaker.”

“Like father like son,” Jonas mumbled.

“Yep. Though he doesn’t live on any of the properties. He’s current on his mortgage and his truck payment. No kids, never been married, no record. I’m working on his credit cards and checking account now. I’ll have those for you this afternoon.”

No Tesla.

“Have you looked into Brittney’s husband?” I asked.

Kira’s eyes narrowed and I knew why. It was a stupid question, one she’d find offensive.

“Oh, darn, Smith, why didn’t I think of that?” Kira scoffed. She turned her head to look at her husband. “It’s like he doesn’t know me.”

“KK—”

“Apologize and I’ll forgive you.”

I heard Aria giggling next to me. And once again I was proved correct—the women bonded. This did not bode well for me.

“Sorry, Kid Genius. I’ll rephrase, did you find anything interesting about Brittney’s husband?”

“Nope. David Peterson, general manager of Carrington Cars. He’s been with the company ten years…”

Kira was still prattling on, however I was no longer listening. My attention went to Aria. One hand trembled, holding her phone. Her other hand wrapped around my forearm. Face pale. Staring at her phone.

“Smith,” she whispered.

I glanced at the screen and shot out of my chair.

“Kira, call nine-one-one! Someone’s breaking into Aria’s house?—”

“Her house or the Grasonville house?” she asked, already picking up the receiver of the landline phone.

“Grasonville. Jonas, Cooper, with me,” I unnecessarily ordered.

Both men were on their feet. So was Aria. Her face was no longer pale—red creeped into her cheeks as anger set in.

“I’m coming with.”

“You’re staying here.”

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