I pull his arms off and turn around to face him. “Are you really suggesting we move in together, Macklin?”
He shrugs. “Ness and Jess are. Maybe it’s a good idea for us too. We are both sticking around after graduation.”
**Tomorrow’s headline: TEEN GIRL SPONTANEOUSLY COMBUSTS FROM OVERWHELMING DOSES OF BEWILDERMENT**
“ ‘Ness and Jess’ have been a couple for two years, Zan. And as you made clear to your family, I’m not your girl—”
“You two get a good look around?” Greg appears in the living room, and that’s the end of that.
I (low-key furiously) take Zan’s hand so our “Realtor” doesn’t think there’s trouble in paradise. We haven’t actually gotten the info we need.
“We did, Greg,” Zan says. “This place is great. Probably number one at this point. Where to next?”
Nope. We’re done here. “Greg, what do you know about the owner of this place?” I say.
Zan looks confused, so I give him the I got this smile he gave me back when we visited Checker Cab (feels like an eon ago that we were there).
Greg opens the file in his hand and flips through a few pages. “Dutch guy,” he says. “This is one of four properties ORG manages for him, and the other three are happily tenanted.”
I nod. “What about the Druid Hills house? I know we haven’t seen it yet, but is the owner American?” God, I sound like a xenophobe.
Greg goes back to his file, and I can feel Macklin eyeing me. “Guessing by the name, yes, that owner is American.”
“What is it, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Name on the deed is Ethel Streeter.”
Bingo. (And thank Lita’s God.)
Zan clears his throat. “Does your file say anything about her? Do people think she’s a good landlady?”
He smiles. “Tenants who lease through us don’t usually interact with property owners. That’s kinda why we exist.”
“But she’s alive?” I say.
“I mean, I’d assume so, since her name is on the deed—”
“When’s the last time you had contact with her?”
Zan squeezes my hand. Yes, I’m coming on too strong now, but we’re so freakin’ close, and I wanna get out of here. Hearing all this with him beside me is making me itch.
Greg’s gaze shifts between us, but then drops to my midsection. He sighs. Goes back to his file. “Our interactions are with her asset manager at Dover Financial—”
“Shit! That’s the company we use!” Zan exclaims.
Greg and I both look at him. “Sorry, Greg. You were saying?”
“Not much else to say.” Greg shuts his file. “Would you like to head to that property now?”
Zan turns to me, his expression that of a kid who just found a treasure map.
Ain’t happenin’.
I put a hand on my belly. “Actually…I’m feeling kinda sick all of a sudden.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Greg says, face softening.
God, if you’re real, withhold the fire and brimstone, please.
“Let’s get you all back to the office. We’ll talk en route.” As Greg makes his way to the door, Zan’s face fills with questions.
I rise to my tiptoes to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Guess that mystery is solved, huh?”
I squeeze his biceps and walk out.
My home—and it is my home since I’m the only thing in here that hasn’t been “renovated”—was built in 1934. And for the most part, I’ve been used for my intended purpose—heat. But when a young couple purchased the house in 1987, the husband told his wife I didn’t work so he’d have a place to stash the gambling winnings she didn’t know about.
Guy had a hell of a lucky streak.
That luck peaked in 1992 when he purchased a winning lotto ticket in South Carolina worth three hundred fourteen thousand dollars.
South Carolina permitted winners to claim big prizes anonymously, so he cashed in his ticket one weekend while his wife was away on a trip with friends, put the money in a black canvas duffel, and stuffed it inside me with the rest of his secret savings.
His wife, though, wasn’t so lucky: she returned home despondent over the three hundred dollars she’d lost gambling in the casinos.
He began to watch her like a hawk. Would hold his breath every time she stood close to me for longer than a few seconds.
One stormy night, he woke up, and she was missing from bed. He found her in the kitchen, just staring at me.
Like she knew.
As soon as she left for work the following day, he pulled all the money out to count it.
It was three hundred dollars short.
Or so he thought. In truth, he’d counted incorrectly. But since he was already convinced his wife had something to hide…
Well.
The next day, as soon as he sits down beside me in history, I pass Zan the note I prepped so I won’t lose my nerve:
You talk to your people at the financial place?
Good morning to you too, Rico.
MORNIN’ SUNSHINE! So, did you?
Somebody’s testy today…
Macklin!
OK, OK! Yes. I did.
And?
He said we could drop by this afternoon.
Excellent! Right after school?
Yeah, if that works for you…
I’ll meet you in the lot.
He scribbles something else and passes it back, but I don’t read it. It’s either a question I won’t wanna answer or something ooey gooey that’ll distract me, and I gotta keep my head in the game.
I didn’t sleep last night. Too much swirling around in my chest. Rage over some guy I don’t know thinking I’m gonna be a teen mom when I’ve never been kissed (nor had a boyfriend). Confusion over Zan’s…well, over Zan in general. (“I really like you.” “She’s not my girlfriend.” “Had a little too much fun after winter homecoming…” “This would be a good spot for us.”)
What’s he even after?
Anyway: definitely need his help with what I hope is the final obstacle. Guessing the son of this financial firm’s (surely) biggest client will (likely) be able to get any info he requests. My plan is once we’ve acquired Ethel’s contact info, I’ll “set up a time for *us* to reach out,” but do it alone beforehand.