Page 112 of Your Every Wish
“He’s an accessory to a crime.” Emma holds my gaze.
I swallow hard, letting it sink in. Liam Duffy did Willy Keil’s dirty work. If the feds knew, there’s no telling what kind of trouble Liam could get into. “He was protecting himself.”
“But he’s not the man I thought he was,” Emma says.
“Maybe not. But he’s a good man just the same.”
“How can you say that?”
“How can I say that? Think about it, Emma. For all this time, he knew where the money was. There was nothing to stop him from digging it up in the dark of night and keeping it for himself. With Willy dead, no one would’ve been the wiser. And yet, he didn’t. He lives in a shit-box trailer in a run-down trailer park, fixing people’s broken appliances for free, while sleeping next to a pile of money. More money than you or I can even imagine. Instead, he guarded it. For us. Because he made a promise to our late father that he would. So he may have lied about who he is to avoid going to prison like Willy. I don’t know about you, but I’m willing to give him a pass for that.”
Liam is twenty times the man Dex is. But let my sister, the advice columnist, figure that out for herself. With time, I know she will.
“He broke the law, Kennedy. He helped Willy hide money from the feds.”
“We don’t know that for sure. After all the assets the government seized from Willy’s estate, maybe the feds will determine that the money is free and clear. Ours for the keeping.”
Ours for the wish.
Emma
I’m out the door early the next morning. Kennedy is still sleeping. She didn’t get much rest last night. I could hear her through the walls, pacing. Panicking about the money.
But I’m aiming to fix that. Maybe. Hopefully.
I drive over to Bent McCourtney’s house in Kennedy’s BMW. His dogs go off like an air raid siren, blowing any chance I have of a surprise attack.
He greets me at the door holding a mug of coffee, looking like he’s been awake for hours.
“Morning.”
“Can I have one of those?” I point to his mug, which is inscribed with IT’S NOT THE SIZE OF THE SPREAD, IT’S THE SKILL OF THE RANCHER.
Ha-ha. I guess that’s what passes around here for cowboy humor.
“You bet. Come in.” He escorts me to the kitchen, where he fires up his fancy coffee machine that probably cost more than I make in a year.
I forgot how large his kitchen is. It’s roughly the size of my old studio and Dex’s apartment combined. He can afford this, I tell myself.
“I came to thank you for what you did. Seriously, you went above and beyond and we’re deeply grateful to you, first for letting us tear down the wall. But all the work you did to make it happen . . . wow.” He’s a sweet man, despite what Kennedy says. Even a blind person can see that their little cat-and-mouse game is feigned. “We just want you to know that we’ll pay you back for everything—the wall and your time. ”
He eyes me over the rim of his mug. “Still nothing from the FBI?”
“Not yet.”
“You’ll hear something soon,” he says encouragingly. “So, what brings you here this morning, Miss Keil? Because I know it’s not my coffee.”
There’s no need beating around the bush, so I flat out tell him, “Kennedy says you want to partner with us on Cedar Pines Estates. We’re willing to cut you in on one condition: You put up forty thousand dollars in earnest money by the end of today.” It is a big ask and probably impossible, but we’re out of options.
“Forty thousand, huh?” He folds his arms over his chest. “How’d you arrive at that figure?”
“It seems fair,” I say because I don’t have a better answer without going into the truth, which is none of Bent McCourtney’s business.
“I can make that work.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said I can make that work.”
