Page 93 of Whispers of You
Cricket:You don’t have to pick me up.
Me:I’m picking you up.
Cricket:Bossy.
Me:You can boss me around later.
A new text popped up on my screen. It was a group text sent to me and Wren.
Grae:Would you two stop sexting? Wren and I need to bawl our eyes out for the fifty millionth time as Beth dies, and then she has to go to work.
Me:I’d rather come home to strippers thanLittle WomenAGAIN.
I shoved my phone into the console and pulled out of the parking lot, a smile still pulling at my mouth. God, I’d missed this: the razzing from Grae, the banter with Wren, feeling like I had my family back.
Turning off the main road, I headed in the direction of my parents’ place. I hadn’t bothered to check if they were in. It was on the way back to Cedar Ridge and just a small detour up the mountain.
In a matter of minutes, I was punching in the code and the gates were opening. By the time I’d parked in front of the house, my mom was pulling open the front door. “This is a pleasant surprise.”
But I didn’t miss the worry on her face. “Everything’s okay. You were on my way home from a meeting, so I thought I’d drop in.”
The tension in my mom’s face eased into a more genuine smile. “I made you and Wren a pie. Some cookies, too. They’re just cooling. Come on in.”
“Marionberry?” I asked hopefully.
“Do I look like a fool?”
“No, you certainly do not.” I bent and gave her a hug. “What kind of cookies?”
“It isn’t always about you, you know,” Mom said, leading me into the house. “They’re snickerdoodle.”
Wren’s favorite.
“I’ve become pretty partial to snickerdoodle over the years.”
Her expression softened. “Because you’re a smart man.”
“Holt,” my dad greeted from the dining table where he was working on a puzzle. “Come help me find this danged corner piece.”
My mom sighed. “I don’t know why he does those things. They only raise his blood pressure.”
“I heard you,” Dad called.
“I wasn’t whispering,” my mom singsonged. She carried a plate of cookies over to the table. “Any updates from Lawson?”
I shook my head as I grabbed a cookie. “Not yet.” I was beginning to worry that we would need more evidence, and that meant another crime.
Pulling out a chair across from my parents, I sat. “I met with Bruce Jenkins today.”
The puzzle piece my dad had been flipping between his fingers stilled. “About the case or something else?”
“About the SAR job.”
Mom’s face lit up like a kid at Christmas. “About you taking the job?”
“He said it’s mine.”
My dad was quiet for a moment, and an unsettling feeling swept over me.
