Page 40 of Violet Spark
Maybe it was time to take matters into my own hands.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
GOOGLE-STALKINGDane and Alling proved pointless. Either Raymon Dane was not the man’s real name, or he’d worked hard to keep any mention of himself off the Internet. Impressive these days. Alling, however, had what looked like a carefully curated online persona, which was, in its way, equally devoid of real information. He looked perfect and posed—happy dog included—in the few pictures he’d posted. It was all public face stuff.
Local police scanners said nothing about a dead body at the campground, but I found a #lostdutchman Twitter hashtag that asked why the road near the campground had been cordoned off. No one had answered.
Which left my spinning, tired mind perusing articles on the latest in cutting-edge nanotechnology breakthroughs from BantaMatrix. They kinda made me feel stupid for not considering Alling’s job offer because damn…thiswaswhere the world was going.
I was about to nod off just as the sun was coming up. I’d pulled all-nighters for school—and for fun with Swann—many times, but this was different. It was like the nights I’d spent sitting up with Mom while the pain tried to kill her. Worse—because I’d believed we could get ahead of the pain, with enough time, therapy, and proper prescriptions. But with this new threat…
I was just so far behind.
I checked the window again. The black SUV that I was sure was watching the house—watching me—was gone. Shit. I’d missed when it had pulled away. But I didn’t think I was in the clear. I had to assume they were still watching me, somehow.
They… Who the actual fuck were they anyway?!?
My head felt clogged and empty at the same time, a drainpipe backed up with loose hair and hydrogen peroxide. The explosion was gonna be gross.
But I had urgent priorities.
My managerial position at a goddamn slushie shop was number one.
I snuck out the door, gaming glove in my pocket, to find Mr. Morales in his front yard kitty-corner from our house, tending his neighborhood award-winning xeriscaping. The prickly, dusty plants were the opposite of his soft, warm brown skin, and he never swore no matter how often they poked him.
He perked up like a barrel cactus after the rain when he saw me. “Morning, Imogen!” His gaze tracked past me, and I could almost hear his disappointed sigh when I closed the door behind me.
Hoping for my mom?
Nowtherewas a swipe-right match waiting to happen. But my mom refused to flirt with him—refused to date at all—even though he was sweet and friendly. And cuuute for an old guy.
And now I needed him. It was shitty to use his kindness this way, but I had no other choice.
Sauntering across the street, I gave him a big smile. “Morning, Mr. M. Looking good over here.”
“Thank you.” He beamed brighter than high noon. “I just picked some lemons. Do you think your mama might like them?”
“I think she’d love them.” I wasn’t even lying. Although she might not feel exactly the same way about his soft brown eyes getting all bloomy when he looked at her. “She’s been struggling a bit lately, and your lemons would make her day.” I leaned closer to him, not like anyone else was around to hear us, but just in case. “If you kinda kept an eye out over there, I’d sure appreciate it.”
He nodded so hard his black hair fluttered. He was a little younger than my mom, I guessed, and had a Benjamin Bratt look going that I’d teased her about more than once. And she’d shut me down so hard that I knew she’d noticed it too.
But his citrus, like his pining, was so very, very sweet.
“I have your number,” he said. “Neighbors watch out for each other.”
Exactly what I was hoping for. I needed him watching out for sketchy SUVs, but I couldn’t exactly say that. “Call me if…anything,” I said. “If you wait a bit before going over, she’ll be done with her morning exercises and there’ll be coffee, I bet.”
He practically bounced.
Mom was going to kill me.
Since he’d sold his landscaping business to one of the big chains and retired early, he volunteered at the library, the local food pantry, and the master gardener program, but he still complained about not having enough to do. Well, now he had a task, and I could feel a little better about having to leave Mom.
Waving goodbye, I marched back to my Fiesta. So normal, shooting the breeze with the neighbor, hooking up my stubborn-as-hell mom with a possible date, heading off to work, hoping I wasn’t going to be run off the road and shot between the eyes.
Had it only been a couple days ago that I thought flashing my boobs on the Internet was bad? Perspective is a bitch.
I got to the Freeze before Shirleen—responsible manager that I was—and gulped down a huge, quad-caff smoothie to get my day started. While I was washing my hands, I studied the purple X. The scabs were gone, and when I ran my fingertip over it, the crossed lines were smooth.
