Page 58 of Forgotten Path
“Don’t do that.”
“What choice do I have?”
Chad’s voice rose into a whine, sending a nails-on-chalkboard shiver down Fred’s back. “Not that,” he said through clenched teeth.
“What if she’s not bluffing? Then what do I do?”
Fred sighed deeply. How did this inept little shit end up running a company? Oh, right. Nepotism.
“Then you lie, Chad. If she says she saw you going into the houseboat, you say she must be mistaken. Say you were in Tallahassee having breakfast at home with your wife.”
“Mitzy was at a school event. Muffins with Mom or some BS.”
“So you were having breakfast at home alone. It’ll be your word against Brianna’s.”
“I … guess.”
“No. Like it or not, we’re in this mess together now. And you’re not bringing me down with you. You will not tell the authorities you were the last person to see Joel Ashland alive. Is that clear?”
“Jeez. You don’t have to yell.”
Fred hadn’t realized he was yelling. But the phone was slick with sweat in his hand and the vein in his forehead was pulsing, so it was safe to assume Chad wasn’t exaggerating.
He forced himself to take a deep breath and lower his voice. “I’m sorry about that. I don’t want you to do something rash and ruin everything you’ve worked for.”
Theywerein this together, which meant he’d have to treat Chad with more care. After all, that was the point of mutually assured destruction.
“Okay. I hear you. Will you let me know if your guy hears my name come up?”
“You’ve got it.”
Chad let out a shaky laugh. “Thanks for talking me down. I feel better already.”
“Good. Glad to hear it.”
“So, how’s the model home coming?”
Fred rolled his eyes. He’d had his fill of this conversation and then some. But the least he could do was spend thirty seconds glad-handing Hornbill.
“Almost done. It looks amazing. The Jones brothers are painting today.”
“That white peak foam color is really going to set the stage, don’t you think?”
“Definitely.”
CHAPTERTHIRTY-ONE
According to the rental car’s GPS, Felicia was fewer than twenty miles from Oyster Point when she saw it. A muddy blue pickup truck, about thirty feet ahead of her, parked beside a construction gate. She didn’t brake or even slow down.
Instead, she swerved right, at speed, and bumped off the road and onto the packed dirt shoulder. Then she slammed on the brakes and the sedan screeched to a stop. The momentum threw her forward, and the shoulder belt caught her and pushed her back. She gripped the wheel and stared hard through the windshield.
What were the odds that it was the same truck?
She scrabbled through the accordion folder on the passenger seat until she found the file she wanted. She fumbled with the file folder for a moment before she managed to flip it open to stare at the color photograph clipped to the folder. It was a picture of a muddy blue pickup truck.
Her eyes flicked from the photo to the truck in front of her and then back to the photo. Same make, same model. The same shade of deep blue. And, most tellingly, the same pattern of mud splattered over the sides of the truck, positioned directly over the slogan on both sides, and the same mud-obscured license plate. When she’d seen the image, her gut told her the mud had intentionally, strategically been applied to avoid identification. But her rational brain had kicked up a fuss. It wasn’t really possible to know that, at least not from a blurry traffic camera picture.
Now, though, she had no doubt. The mud was too perfectly placed, the coverage too complete to be accidental. This was the truck that had followed Joel’s Jeep through the service plaza and the toll booth. And the driver—like the driver of the Jeep—had worn a baseball cap pulled low over their forehead and large sunglasses to hide their identity and their gender. Could be a guy. Could be a girl.
