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“What are they?” Ford asks.

“Design plans.”

“What for?”

I show them to Ford. “Some kind of institutional building it looks like.”

Both of us frown at the paper, trying to make sense of it. It’s McCrae & Associates. It looks almost like a library or a school. The hell did he have drawings like these for?

Ford crouches down, picking up a wad of paper off the ground. It looks like it’s mostly opened mail. Bills, stampedpast due. Dozens of them. He hands me one. It’s not addressed here, but to the office.

“He never brought anything home,” I say. “Said it was too risky.”

Yet here’s a huge pile of mail calling me a liar.

“He wasn’t lying about the money thing,” Ford says, picking up some of the bills. Then he goes still as he reads one of them. It’s on nicer paper than the bills, cream colored and thick.

“Fuck me,” Ford says after a minute.

He hands it to me. There’s an embossed logo at the top that says the letter’s from a law office. The subject line readsCorporate Insolvency Support.

We meet each other’s eyes.

“Guess I’m not going back to Texas,” Ford says.

McCrae & Associates is bankrupt.

I’m so stunned that it’s not until I’m back outside and Ford’s left with Chipps that I remember my phone. When I pull it out, still half-dazed at this news, I see only one missed text from Sasha, from half an hour ago.

SASHA: My brother found me. Don’t worry, I’m okay. He’s gone.

CHAPTER40

Sasha

Ihead from that jarring brunch straight to work on Sunday. Luckily my shift is four hours where I get to pretend my brother didn’t just track me down to try to use me as an out for whatever political mess he’s gotten himself into. The best part is chatting with Glo about a hypothetical business idea I have, where we dress up women like that single mom who came in for interview clothes, getting designers to provide donations so they’re free or low cost for the women.

“We could do it, you know,” Glo says as I’m leaving. I laugh but see she’s serious. Fired up.

I don’t have time to think about that, though, because I have to run home and throw some clothes of my own into a bag for my stay at Cass’s, and check on Chester one more time before I’m gone for a few days.

But the minute I walk in the door, I spot my laptop on the coffee table.

I vowed I wouldn’t think about Sam; that I wouldn’t get involved in his messes ever again.

But I can’t help that sliver of worry that maybe he was right. Maybe I should be worried, even if he thinks Creelman’s gone.

The results are mostly in the news section of the search engine.

Sam didn’t just resign—he took off. He didn’t show up to any of his meetings at the end of last week. Reports say very little information is being made public. All anyone knows is he left a letter on his desk, resigning his post. He hasn’t been heard from in—I tally the time—four days.

And police want him for questioning.

My hand’s at my mouth, but I make myself lower it.

No. This is a mess, but it’s not mine. I meant what I said about him needing to fix it himself. But I can’t help that nagging feeling that won’t go away that maybe Sam’s not just trying to protect his own ass.

I hesitate, then I do what I haven’t done since I got to Quince Valley—I text my mom.