“But they are listening. They’ll know it was her who left, not me. They’ll hear that she’s gone. They got a wiretap, they’re listening.” Isaac shook his head, still trying to poke holes in my concrete fortress of a plan.
“That’s easy to fix.” I needed to wrap this up. “We record Diane now, in every room, her typical day, and we make sure she does the same thing at the same time—more or less—and when she leaves, we hit play. Again, in every room.”
“You want to . . .” Isaac’s attention turned inward, like he was trying to keep up. Good. It was his turn to be lost.
I went on, “We play two or three days on a loop. They pick up the sounds they expect to hear. That’ll give her a three- or four-day head start.”
“What about the bike? She doesn’t know how to ride a motorcycle.” Jet scratched his chin.
“Actually, she does.” Repo’s statement immediately drew our attention.
“She does?” Jet’s hand dropped.
“Yep. She rides,” the older man confirmed, looking proud. “She’s been driving my bike for weeks. I mean, she was. Before.”
“She rides.” I nodded. “It’s all set.”
“How does Isaac get out of there?”
I scowled at my brother and his question. Meet Jethro Winston, Mr. Monkey Wrench.
“He waits ’til dark, slips out the back,” I replied with the answer that should’ve been obvious.
Another Jethro question, “What if he gets caught?”
“I won’t get caught,” Isaac said, swinging his glare to me. “You’re good at this, Cletus.”
Uncertain whether this was meant as a compliment, I asked, “Thank you?”
“You’re welcome.”
“What about me?” Repo rubbed his hands together, which was definitely his tell. The man was excited, anxious, restless, his typical laissez-faire demeanor nowhere in sight. “Where do I go? Where do I meet her?”
“Repo, Diane will meet you at the Dragon. Your job will be to get her out of Green Valley while leaving Isaac’s bike at the bar. Isaac will get himself over there, unseen, no one the wiser. Jenn and I will meet you at whatever safe house you pick.”
“What?!” Jethro, Repo, and Isaac all asked in unison.
I glared at each of them in turn, letting my attention linger on Isaac last. “I want those listening and recording devices out of Jenn’s house before she’s released, and I want to know how you got in and out of the house without tripping the system or being caught on the security cameras.”
“Fine, but—”
“And that dude in the white Ford? I want him to stop following me.”
“He loses you half the time anyway.” Isaac made like he was going to roll his eyes but seemed to catch himself just in time.
“He was one of yours?” I asked, inspecting him. I’d made the demand on a hunch without knowing for sure. But something I did know for sure: Isaac wasn’t just an Iron Wraith. He worked undercover for some part of the government, that much was clear. I suspected DEA. FBI was also a possibility.
Isaac didn’t answer, instead saying, “There’s no way you and Jenn are going to that safe house. You’ll be followed.”
“Nope.” I shook my head.
“How can you be so sure?” Repo asked, looking nervous.
“I have my ways of evading unwanted attention, and that’s all either of you need to know.”
“Trust him. He does,” Jet said.
I sent my brother a small smile, hoping he’d take it as confirmation that he and I were still good. Jet may have been a sketchy asshole in his youth, but he was a changed man. He’d asked and I’d already forgiven him for everything, case closed. New details weren’t going to alter anything between us.
“I don’t know, Cletus.” Repo looked from Isaac to me. “Is the risk—”
“That’s my ask. That’s the price for my help.” I glared at Repo as I backed away. Their time was up. I needed to get back to Jenn. “If you want Diane safely out of town, away from the police and Farmer Miller’s threats, Jenn gets to say goodbye to her mother. Nonnegotiable.”
Chapter Fifteen
*Jenn*
“… the sentimental person thinks things will last. The romantic person has a desperate confidence that they won't.”
F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise
When I’d asked Billy how Cletus was doing, he said, “Don’t you worry about him.”
So I’d said, “Billy. Tell the truth.”
He’d said, “He wouldn’t want you to worry about him.”
Which I took to mean that Cletus was doing just about as well as I expected given he’d had to watch me be arrested and they hadn’t yet allowed him a visit. The truth was, other than worrying about him, I was probably doing much better than he was.
If I were going to be arrested and held in lockup, the sheriff’s station wasn’t bad. I knew all the deputies as I’d baked them birthday cakes every year and often brought in goodies for holidays. They gave me my own room, or cell. Evans played cards with me during his breaks. Monroe brought me a few books to pass the time. Boone checked in every hour or so during his administrative shift. He looked worried, asked if I needed anything, and apologized “for everything.”
My arrest wasn’t Boone’s fault, I felt sure of that, but he sure seemed to feel responsible. He’d taken the cuffs off as soon as we reached the police car and had walked beside me when we entered the station, remarking on the nice weather. I asked about his momma’s rose garden. We’d chatted more throughout the check-in process about his momma—or the “processing” process?—and I’d been offered coffee, tea, or water to drink as I’d waited for my lawyer. He insisted on taking my mug shot twice ’cause he said the first one was bad.
I liked Boone.
Genevieve, my momma’s lawyer, had arrived within the hour and argued with anyone she could find, objecting to my arrest, objecting to my treatment—even though I told her I’d been treated well—objecting to the lack of an arraignment date, objecting to the fact that I’d been sitting in one of the questioning rooms but hadn’t been questioned.
When they asked if she wanted me to be questioned, she rose hell. I liked her. She was good at arguing.
I felt desperate for contact with Cletus. This was the longest we’d gone without each other’s company in over a year. Everyone was being so nice, but I ached for him. I longed to know he was safe. It might’ve been a strange thought, but with Elena out there, I felt safer in here.
Maybe I should’ve been afraid, locked up in a prison cell—or a holding cell, I guess—but I wasn’t. I got the sense everyone was waiting. The deputies, the sheriff, the men and women in suits who would inspect me as they walked by seemed to be biding time. I didn’t recognize the suit-clad folks, but they seemed to know me. Yes, they were all waiting for something to happen, and I felt certain it didn’t really have anything to do with me.