He’s right.
So why did Dad have it in the first place?
That question eats at me as I pry myself away from Alaska.
I need to talk to Sheriff Langley. I want to see the police report on my father’s death again, dig in and check to see if there was anything I missed.
Anything that might point to more answers and show me what to do.
I can’t let that mess of gold be Alaska’s responsibility for any longer than it has to be.
Not when it feels like it’s as tainted as my name.
The Randall Curse is mine, and I’ll die before I let it consume Alaska or his sweet son.
8
The Gold Standard (Alaska)
When you get to know him, you find out fast that Holt Silverton’s a funny drunk.
And by funny, I mean so damned soppy over his wife you’d think she single-handedly saved the town from destruction—when we all know what she really saved was him.
The change in the boss since he’s become a family man is something to witness.
Not gonna lie.
I’m a little jealous.
I’m also trying not to laugh my ass through the floor as he lifts his mug in another jeering toast to Libby—the seventh since we sat down for a few drinks after several grueling days at work.
Although at least this time Holt’s not demanding everyone in Brody’s give a rousing cheer with him.
Nope, just the unlucky—but very amused—sods here at his table. Namely, every man who doesn’t mind a little beer and some downtime before he heads on home.
“To Libby!” Holt crows, thrusting up his mug.
Blake and me and everyone else dutifully repeat it like a tent church revival.
“To Libby.”
“You’re damn right,” Holt says. “Say, didja know they’re coming out to the farm to do research?” He doesn’t specify who they might be. I’m not sure he even knows. “All this hiss...historical and sciency stuff out in Ursa, and all thanks to that damn meteorite. Pretty cool, huh? Things are finally going right in this weird little town.” He grins toothily at Blake. “Sorry, man. No more big explosions or fires for you to put out.”
Blake rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Nah, bro, just near-death experiences and shoot-outs with crazies. Way better than fires.”
“I think I’ve missed a lot,” I say. “Only had one near-death experience and shoot-out here over that meteorite thing last year. Seems like this town’s got a history and so do some of the folks here. How about the Randalls?”
I hope I don’t seem like I’m fishing.
I really am curious about the town and the recent misadventures that put it on the map. I’d heard of the place even before Holt told me it was his hometown, back when we were working in NYC. That Galentron mess nailed several high-up politicians and made national news.
More than anything, though, I’m curious about Miss Felicity.
“Oh, Fliss?” Holt perks up.
His arm flails out expansively, and his hand just narrowly misses smacking his brother—if only because Blake rocks back with an ease born from a lifetime of practice with his little brother.
“Watch it!” Blake snaps.
Holt snorts. “Pfft. Don’t you believe all that bullshit you hear about Felicity. She’s a nice gal. Tough. Goddamned scrapper, really.” He drops his head, making a mournful noise into his beer. “Gave me a black eye once when I was a kid.”
“You had it coming when you tried to look up her skirt,” Blake points out with a lopsided grin.
With a scowl, Holt huffs, “We were on the jungle gym. It was logistics.”
“Uh-uh.” I eye him in amusement.
“Shaddup. I’m talking.” Holt points an imperious finger at me, then drops it. “So she wasn’t born here, right? But she moved here pretty young. Think her daddy was a cargo pilot. Her mama’s the one who opened The Nest. Fliss was always around helping out at the café.” He leans forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that’s somehow louder than his drunk-talking voice. “Her old man flew planes for Galentron—or so I always heard—back when they were setting up shop secretly in that old mine.”
This tension falls like a knife—not just at our table, but at the tables around us in earshot—the second he says the G-word. This kind of dark pause.
Can’t say I blame them.
From what I’ve seen in the news and heard in hushed whispers, that company dragged all kinds of bad out here.
Left the good townsfolk traumatized. I imagine some of them are still wondering if one day more goons will pop up looking for more trouble, even if the company doesn’t exist anymore and its CEO landed behind bars.
Blake, though, glances rather conspicuously over his shoulder, eyeballing the door.
“Watch your mouth, man,” he mutters warily to Holt.
I follow his line of sight, but there’s no one there.
“Expecting someone?” I ask.
“No, not really. Sorry.” Blake shakes his head, shrugging and looking back at Holt.
I eye him, but he’s not looking like he’s in the mood to be forthcoming.
So I focus back on the talkative drunk between us, and ask Holt, “So when Galentron went bust with the hotel fire meltdown, so did Felicity’s dad?”
And is that a hint at the gold’s origin?
“Yup,” Holt confirms in a slurring drawl. “Kinda seems like things went to shit around then for a lot of folks. Lost a lot of jobs and business with them pulling out.”
“Yeah, I was working odd jobs around that time when I wasn’t training on the volunteer crew. Even picked up a couple fill-in shifts here at Brody’s.” Blake’s drawling voice goes quiet, thoughtful, and he stares with heavy eyes into a beer he’s barely touched. “I remember cleaning up his spilled beer some nights, you know.”
“Who?” I ask.
“Morgan Randall.” He lets out a rough snort. “Felicity’s daddy. He was always here. Every frigging night. Drinking like he had a second liver, making himself everyone’s best friend—but he was real tight with Flynn Bitters.” He seems to snap out of a trance then, shaking his head. “I think Mr. Randall’s death was what made Flynn sober up—at least for a while.”
“Still always smells like rum to me,” Holt observes with an exaggerated sigh.
“I think he bathes in it,” Blake says. “And he tumbled off the sober wagon pretty fast. Surprised he’s not here now, but he usually shows up after dinner.” He sighs. “Would’ve been nice for Fliss if her dad had gone straight. Before...you know. The shit.”
“What shit, Blake?” I ask, even though I already know.
Something tells me Felicity wouldn’t want them knowing the things she’s been sharing with me.
Holt sighs again, his chin slumping against his hand.
“Morgan. Langley found him, I heard. Out on one of those mountain roads leading north. Dead in his truck, slumped over his steering wheel.” His hazel eyes soften. “Fliss was never the same after that.”
I can bet.
There’s also a tidbit in there I didn’t know.