Page 9 of A Not So Merry Rescue
“Gotta keep up our reputation.”
“The reputation as Whoville’s competition?” I snark, feeling much like a grinch. Unlike him, my heart wasn’t always this small and frigid.
“The reputation of the most decorated small town in the US. We lost three years ago, and no one in town wants to lose again.”
“That’s a real thing?” I blink one eye open, looking for clues he’s serious.
“Oh, yeah. There’s a plaque and all. Housed in our town hall.”
“You’re lying.”
For a few beats, his expression remains stoic, and I think maybe he’s serious. But then his armor cracks.
“No, I’m kidding. Some travel guru created a website listing the top ten most decorated towns, and when Winterberry wasn’t the first on the list three years ago, there was a riot.”
I’m so invested in the story—how serious he is—I forgetabout the obscuring lights and open both eyes. A playful smirk dances on Beckett’s lips, but I’m not well enough acquainted with him to decipher it.
A shrilling noise rings out around us, and I take way too long to realize it’s my phone blaring with an incoming call. Clem’s name and face light up the screen, and I swipe to answer before recognition dawns on where I am and who I’m with.
“‘Lo?”
“Are you alive?”
I roll my eyes at the dramatic question. “I’m answering. And not from the dead.”
“Are you hurt?”
“Just my eyes at the moment. So many freaking bright lights.”
“Bright lights like at the hospital?” Before I can get my answer in, she gasps. “Or bright lights like it’s calling you home? Do not go toward it, Willafred. Do not go near the light!” Her panic shrills in my ear, and I have to move the phone away unless I want to go deaf. She’s still screaming nonsense, but I can only make out every third word.
“I’m fine, Clementine. Calm down.” Even though she can’t see, I pinch my nose in annoyance. Though, her point is valid.
“Calm down? You told me to call you and hope you weren’t dead. How am I supposed to not react?”
“Relax. I’m fine. Beckett’s driving me to his house because all the rental options are occupied.” I voice the words, hearing how they sound. If roles were reversed, I’d have a lot of questions. More than she probably will. It’s my nature.
“Who the hell is Beckett?” Another screech, a little louder this time.
“The tow truck driver.”
“Oh, the serial killer?” Damn, she’s been paying close attention to everything I’ve said today. That’s not usually her MO.
“I confirmed he’s not one.”
“Oh, youconfirmedit, did you? How’d you do that, Willafred?”
I hate when our personalities do a switcheroo. Right now, I need her to be the calm one, not the hysterical one.
“Hold on.” I tap the speakerphone button, her winded breath coming over the line. “Beckett, can you kindly tell my sister you’re not a serial killer?”
“As if a serial killer would say such a thing,” comes Clem’s exasperated tone.
“Clementine, is it?” Beckett inquires, his tone light and jovial. Clearly at our expense.
“Clem,” she corrects.
He glances my way. “My mistake, sorry. Can I ask you a question?”
