She doesn’t know about him being there that night. She can’t. There’s no way she saw him.
“Everything,” she replies, her cheeks reddening by the second. “And put some clothes on, for God’s sake.”
I don’t give a damn whether she thinks this is appropriate or not. “No, I wanna know what he did,” I say, placing my fist on the kitchenette counter behind her. “You didn’t come there for me.”
“It was a nice coincidence,” she retorts, lowering her still tied hands. “But no.”
“Then why?”
I need to know so I can justify the fact that I took her away from there. If not, and her reasoning fails the test, then it was all for nothing, and I risked my job and my life for diddly fucking squat.
“What did he do? Tell me,” I say.
She laughs. “You’re kidding, right?” Her head tilts back, and she laughs some more. “This has to be a joke.”
I shove her against the counter and grasp her by the throat. “Tell. Me. What. He. Did.”
I can feel her swallow under my hand. “All right. All right.” She carefully pries my fingers loose. “He double-crossed me and my dad and destroyed our business, so I’m gonna destroy his too.”
Double-crossed her and her dad? What? How?
My uncle would never do business with the Burrells. He knows what they did.
“With what?” I ask, not trusting a word of what she says. “How did he ruin your family’s business?”
“Only if you untie me,” she says.
Well, fuck. She knows how to pressure me into giving her what she wants. Just like the good ole days.
Grumbling, I reach for her hands and pull the belt loose, chucking it on the floor behind me.
She rubs her wrists, and mumbles, “Thanks.”
“Now talk,” I say.
“Like you don’t know.” She presses her lips firmly together. “I saw you at the farmhouse, Brandon.”
My brows draw together. Fuck. “You mean—”
“Drugs. We sold him drugs. And not just a handful.”
Drugs … the farmhouse … it’s all starting to click now.
“Yeah, that’s right. You saw it with your own eyes,” she says, pushing a finger against my chest. “We both know you were there the night of the fire, so don’t fucking pretend you don’t know anything about it.”
I know she knows. I always knew.
She was the one who found my Zippo.
It’s what started the chain of events that led to this moment. The whole reason we’re in this position in the first place. That fucking farm … I should’ve never gone there to see her.
Chapter Twenty
Brandon
Past
November 6th
As I stroll off the Burrell property, I can’t stop thinking about Dixie and how she just broke up with me. Fuck. I thought she liked me but apparently not enough to come with me.
I don’t get it. She doesn’t even like her family that much, so why stick around? We’re old enough to make our own choices. We don’t need anyone else to decide our fate for us.
She’s too used to having a family to let them go.
Instead, she pushed me away.
Fucking hell.
I kick a few rocks scattered on the ground. I could really go for a smoke right about now.
Maybe I will. It’s a long walk to get back to the motel where I’m staying, and I can’t wait until then. Besides, it’s the middle of the night, and they’re all inside the house. No one will notice me here. Only Dixie knows I’ve been here, and she won’t tell a soul, right?
I fish a cigarette from my pocket and try to light it with my Zippo, but the harsh breeze isn’t doing me any favors. Fucking wind messing with my only solace right now. I quickly hide behind the farmhouse near the edge of the property where I climbed over the fence. The wooden structure blocks the cold draft a bit, which is good enough for me. I won’t be here for long. And this might be my last time too, now that I think of it.
Damn.
Right as I hold up my Zippo to light the cig, a bright light shining through a narrow gap in the farmhouse blinds me. The lights are still on … odd. Who’d be working in a farmhouse in the middle of the night?
I stop what I’m doing and peek inside.
Plants everywhere, lit by a thousand lamps, row after row of them all lined up. Drugs.
Two people are watering the plants and checking them to see if they’re growing properly. It’s Danny and his father, Mr. Burrell. But where’s Ben? I don’t see him anywhere.
My face is glued to the gap in the wooden wall. With the Zippo clutched in my hand, my thoughts of lighting that damn cig have disappeared. I can’t stop gawking even though I know it’s wrong. But what they’re doing is even worse.
Growing narcotics on your own damn property? Why would they be doing this? Is money that tight? Or do they just love the smell of dollar bills? And who do they sell it to? They must have a contact to be able to move that many drugs.