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“I don’t mind,” Frank said.
Dex seemed to think about it, lowering his bottle to the table. “Yeah, okay. They try anything . . .”
Frank slashed his finger across his neck, making her glad Trevor wasn’t in there to see it.
“I’ll make a list,” she said.
Ten minutes later, Dex was gone. She breathed her first sigh of relief since this nightmare began—until she saw Frank resting his hand on the butt of his holstered gun. “Another sandwich?” she asked.
“I’ll wait.”
“Beer?”
“Sure.”
She signaled for Trevor to stay at the kitchen table, as she opened another beer and brought it out to Frank. “How long do we have to stay here?” she asked.
He took the bottle, gazing at the television. “Until we get the car back and find what’s hidden in it. I mean, who knew?”
“Knew what?”
“There was a treasure somewhere.”
“In the car?”
“That’d be rich. Someone would
’ve found it by now, don’t you think?”
“How’d it get stolen?”
“Some train robbery back in the 1900s.”
“The car, I meant. The Gray Ghost.”
Frank looked at her, his brows raising. “You’re kidding, right?”
As much as she wanted to tell him that she found none of this laughable, she dared not do anything to arouse his anger. Keeping her expression as calm as possible, she picked up Dex’s half-empty ale and carried it to the kitchen, looking back at Frank. “I know how it was stolen from my uncle.” After all, she played a small but major role in that crime. But what choice did she have? “I was wondering how it was stolen from your boss.”
“You mean, you really don’t know?” He stared at her, shook his head. “That’s rich.”
A slow realization burned in her gut. “You and . . . Dex?”
“Who else?”
“Are you insane? What happens when your boss finds out?”
“How would he do that?”
“I— I don’t know.” She couldn’t believe what an idiot she was. Clamping her mouth shut, she pretended to do a bit of cleaning, working her way to the coffee table, turning up the volume on the television as she slid the remote control next to a magazine, then picking up Frank’s empty sandwich plate, returning it to the kitchen. “Trevor, come help me do the dishes.”
Trevor pushed back his chair from the table and trailed after her.
She turned on the water full blast, letting it run. “Do you think you can climb out the window upstairs?” It could open only a few inches, the crank having been removed, but she was certain he could force it open wider. The window frame was old, made of aluminum. “You can tie a couple of sheets together from the linen closet.”
“I’m not leaving you here.”
“You have to,” she whispered, looking back toward the living room. Frank’s attention was on the television. “Your father helped steal Uncle Albert’s car from the man who stole it to begin with. When that person figures it out, he’ll send someone here to kill him. And us. Assuming—” She was about to say “your father” again but stopped when she realized how horrible it sounded. As though this was Trevor’s fault more than hers.