Page 29 of Something Tattered
By my least-favorite relatives.
Again.
Chapter 13
Even from a distance, I could make out the familiar white Mercedes as plain as day. It was parked in the turnaround with the doors shut, but the trunk wide open.
Looking at it, I wanted to scream. Instead, I leaned back in my seat and groaned, "Cripes, not again."
"What?" the painter asked.
I gave him a nervous glance. "I've got company."
He stopped the car and turned to study my face. At something in my expression, he cut the engine, along with the headlights. His gaze shifted forward to the Mercedes, and his eyebrows furrowed. "And that's a problem?"
I looked toward the house. Through the eyes of a stranger, there was nothing to be alarmed about. In front of me, there it was, a perfectly pretty scene – a pricey estate with a pricey car parked out front.
Sure, the car's trunk was open, but that wasn't terribly unusual. I'd parked in that same spot countless times, unloading whatever from my own trunk.
But studying that oh-so-pretty picture, I knew something that a stranger wouldn't. If past history was any indicator, the trunk wasn't being emptied. It was being filled.
I just knew it.
I looked to the painter. "It's my aunt and uncle."
He gave me a perplexed look. "And?"
I winced. "And I think they're robbing me."
His gaze shot back to the Mercedes. "You think? Or you know?"
Right on cue, my front door flew open, and a portly middle-aged man with a shock of red hair staggered out through the open doorway. In his arms was a bronze sculpture of a charging war horse.
The man was my uncle. The horse was my dad's – or at least, ithadbeen, back when he'd been alive.
I looked to the painter. "Well, I guess that answersthatquestion."
But the painter wasn't looking at me. He was looking at Uncle Ernie, who was stumbling his way down the front steps, heading toward the trunk of his car.
Before I could even consider what to do, the painter hit the headlights. Under the sudden glare, my uncle froze in mid-stagger, like a farmer caught screwing a chicken.
Next to me, the painter fired up the Camaro and hit the gas. We roared forward and skidded into the turnaround, only to stop on a dime just inches from the back of the Mercedes.
Uncle Ernie staggered sideways. "Son-of-a-bitch!" he yelled, apparently more in surprise than in anger.
I had to give him credit for one thing though. He hadn't dropped the horse. Then again, this wasn't exactly his first rodeo.
I shoved open my car door and jumped out to demand, "What are you doing?"
He glanced around. "Huh?"
Through gritted teeth, I said it again, more slowly this time. "What. Are. You. Doing?"
He gave me a shaky smile. "Hey, aren't you supposed to be at T.J.'s?"
I eyed the horse. "Aren'tyousupposed to benotrobbing my house?"
At this, he had the nerve to look insulted. His gaze shifted to the bronze statue, still clutched in his beefy arms. "You talking aboutthis?"
