Page 35 of Your Every Wish
Why? is the question.
Misty holds my gaze for longer than is comfortable. “Not a thing,” she finally says.
Most people have a tell when they’re bluffing—a blinking eye, a scrunching nose, a shaking hand, a sniffle. You learn this from working in a casino most of your adult life. Misty’s body language tells me nothing, yet I know she’s lying.
“Did Bent McCourtney know Willy?” Because it makes sense that they would’ve met when Daddy Dearest purchased the park.
“I really couldn’t tell you. His lawyers might’ve gotten in touch.”
“What does Bent want to do with the park?” Emma asks and I can tell it’s a ploy to change the subject.
“Probably keep it for himself,” she says. “It’s part of his birthright. At one time, his family owned and operated the largest cattle ranch in this part of California. I don’t think his father ever got over losing the land. It would be a feather in Bent’s cap to regain the property again.”
“Would he continue to keep it as a trailer park?” Emma says.
“I doubt it. He doesn’t like the park. It’s a stain on his family’s history.”
And it’s not profitable, I want to say but hold my tongue.
“Then why do you want us to sell it to him?” Emma plucks one of the scones off a serving platter and slathers it with jam.
“I don’t. I want you girls to keep it and with a few tweaks I believe it can be very profitable for you. But if you do sell, at least let him have a shot at it. It’s only fair.”
It sounds as if she’s actually fond of the dumbass. Granted, he’s the best-looking man I’ve ever seen. But his looks don’t make up for his vile personality. Still, if Bent McCourtney wants to buy Cedar Pines Estates and is willing to pay the right price for it, who am I to stand in his way?
“We’re going to try our hardest to make it work”—Emma looks at me pointedly—“and if we can’t, I’ll make it my life’s mission to find a buyer who will pour money into Cedar Pines . . . make sure no one is displaced.”
“I believe you, dear.” Misty rests her hand on Emma’s arm.
We help her clear the table, then Misty washes each piece of china by hand while Emma and I dry, the rhythm of it surprisingly soothing. We pack up the leftovers in little floral containers, which Misty gives us to take home.
“I’ll return your Tupperware as soon as we eat everything,” Emma says.
We’re halfway to the door when out of the blue, Misty says, “Don’t forget about the key.”
Both Emma and I exchange confused glances, like Misty, who seemed lucid all through lunch, may not be all there.
“Key? What key?”
“The one in the manila envelope.”
Emma holds up the plastic containers. “We don’t have an envelope. ”
“The one from the lawyer’s office. The one his secretary gave you.”
“How do you know about those?” Emma asks.
I grab her by the arm and start dragging her to the door. “We’ve got to go.”
There has to be some rational reason why Misty knows about the manila envelopes, about Mr. Townsend, about his receptionist. But we don’t have time to figure it out now. And I certainly don’t have the patience to hear how Misty is a witch who gets hired by police departments to solve missing-persons cases.
As much as I want the skinny on Misty’s supposed telepathy—or whatever that was a few seconds ago—we don’t have time for it now.
We don’t have time because I just remembered something important Mr. Townsend said. Something that can change everything.
Emma
“What are you looking for? For God’s sake, you don’t actually believe there’s a key in there, do you?” I swear Kennedy’s lost her mind. The way we rushed out of Misty’s . . . well, it was rude.
