Page 73 of Midnight Auto Parts

A blur drew my attention down to the office where Johnny skidded to a stop as he noticed me.

“Hey.” I crossed my fingers my earlier gambit had paid off. “Got news for me?”

“Hey yerself.” A flash of blue light, and he stood next to me. “Me and the boys sat in on that meeting.”

“You sent the Buckley Boys,” Kierce said slowly, “to the Grandview Women’s Club meeting?”

“Yep.” I focused on Johnny enough to tousle his hair. “What did you learn?”

“The club’s a ruse.” He tapped under his eye. “They don’t knit or crochet or read them steamy books.”

“Okay.” I leaned against the railing. “What do they do then?”

“They figure out how to hide women and kids who’re getting walloped at home.”

“They aid domestic abuse survivors,” I murmured, sharing a glance with Kierce over my shoulder.

“That’s what I said.” Johnny huffed. “They was all hyped about some new place to live where there was room for everyone.” He rolled a shoulder. “There was some kind of problem there, but they didn’t know what. Mostly they answered calls and told people everything was going to be okay.”

“I don’t suppose you heard any names?”

“I heard ’em say Rosalie Morgan.” He scratched his head. “And Patricia Morgan, I think.”

“Sisters?”

“Yeah. Twins.”

“Thanks.” I could pass the names on to Carter if the internet failed me. “I appreciate the help.”

“We’re happy to help, ain’t we?” He grinned. “I’ll add this to your tab.”

If I wanted a life outside of reading to the boys, I might have to invest in audiobooks and a sound system.

Quick as a blink, he zipped away in a smudge of blue light, leaving Kierce and me alone.

With an idea I hoped our lanyards would excuse if we got caught.

God help us all, the golf cart was ready for its first trip to Bonaventure bright and early. The thing was in worse shape than Harrow’s Chevelle had been before Josie skewered it with a tree, but it ran. Somehow Pascal had convinced the poor old thing to crank, so today I rode shotgun as Kierce gave driving another shot. Had I owned a rosary, I might have been tempted to loop it around my wrist a few times.

Matty elected to walk alongside us the whole way, since that was the golf cart’s top speed.

Well, that, and the rear bench was a nest of springs with no foam or fabric.

“You’re doing great.” He shot Kierce two thumbs-up seconds before Badb snatched a cracker from his hand. “For once in his afterlife, Pascal had a good idea. How do you feel behind the wheel, Kierce?”

“I prefer this to the wagon.” His posture was looser, his grip easier. “I’m less anxious.”

“I don’t blame you.” Matty snorted. “Frankie would murder you for totaling her baby.”

“I’ve been thinking about why this works.” I ignored my brother. “Maybe it’s the openness of the cart?”

Not quite the same as trotting along with nothing but a horse beneath him, but still. Baby steps.

“Hmm.” He puttered along without a hitch. “You might be right.”

“It does happen occasionally.” I tested the rusted bar in front of me, the flaky metal one good push from breaking. “Pedro will have a cow when he sees this with his own eyes.”

“You mean withmyown eyes?” Matty patted the side panel. “He lives for a challenge.”

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