Page 9 of The Executioners Three

Freddie thought her lungs might punch through her esophagus. In a good way. Because where she’d expected Divya and Laina to be in the Jeep, it turned out to be only Kyle.

Freddie was pretty sure that qualified this moment as a date.

“Thanks for the jacket,” she said as she clambered into shotgun. She slipped it off, and a great wash of cool air and sadness wafted across her. At least she had Xena back, though, and safely around her neck.

“You’re welcome.” Kyle grinned. “Did it work?”

“Erm.” Freddie wasn’t sure how to answer that question. After all, it was a jacket, not a power tool. “Yes?”

He grinned even wider.

“So where are Laina and Divya?” Freddie asked as he shifted into drive.

“Laina’s got her mom’s car tonight, so she’s driving them. And Cat is driving her and Luis, so we’re all meeting at the cul-de-sac.”

“The… cul-de-sac?” Kyle acted as if Freddie should know the place. “Um, what is this cul-de-sac?” Freddie asked when it became clear Kyle hadn’t understood that her previous repetition was actually a question.

“You know, Mrs. Elliot’s unfinished subdivision.” Devastating grin. “If you cut through the woods, you end up right next to Fortin Prep’s landscaping shed. There’s a gate there, and no one ever locks it.”

As the Jeep turned off of Freddie’s road, Kyle’s swoony green eyes latched onto her. “Sorry I didn’t come to your locker after school. I forgot I had detention.”

“Oh.” Freddie blinked. “And here I thought I’d missed you because I had…” She trailed off. There was nothing at all she could say that wouldn’t lead to questions or strange looks about the hanging—and neither questions nor strange looks were what Freddie was going for tonight.

“I… stayed late after class. To tutor Divya.” She is going to kill me . “Why were you in detention?”

“I skipped school.” He winced adorably.

And Freddie really didn’t think he could get any cuter. She’d always found Bad Boys appealing—particularly if they wore tight pants and sang about summer nights and greased lightning. “Do you perhaps have a leather jacket?” she asked hopefully. “Or a motorcycle?”

“No.”

“Alas.” She sighed.

“I think someone left one at my family’s dry cleaners, though.” He smiled. “A leather jacket. Not a motorcycle.” This made him laugh and, in turn, made Freddie laugh too.

“Do clothes often get left at the dry cleaners?”

“All the time. We’ve got, like, a bajillion Quick-Bis uniforms. Oh, and a ton of Fortin Prep uniforms too. It’s my job to track down their owners, but if I don’t find them”—he shrugged—“then the stuff gets donated. Or just thrown away.”

“What a dutiful son,” Freddie breathed. Hard-working and charitable.

Two more turns, and Kyle steered them onto the curvy road beside the lake. The sun was almost gone, leaving the road dark and the lake hidden behind trees and shadow.

“Hey,” Kyle said, thumbs tapping on the steering wheel to a melody only he could hear. “Can I get your phone number? That would make it a lot easier next time I want to hang out with you.”

Next time. He’d said next time.

Freddie nodded frantically, incapable of doing much else. A real boy was showing interest in her! And he was getting her phone number. She never wanted to return the Lance Bass keychain. Ever.

Of course, moments later when Kyle attempted to type Freddie’s house number into his Nokia while he was still driving, some of the magic dissolved. Freddie snatched the mobile—perhaps a bit roughly—from his hands.

Which was when the moment really spiraled from her control because once she’d added her home number and explained how her mom wouldn’t let her have a cell phone, she caught sight of the road ahead—a road that Kyle was not watching.

A road upon which a figure stood.

“Look out!” Freddie braced herself. Kyle’s brakes shrieked. The car swerved toward the woods… Trees zoomed in fast.

The Jeep squealed to a stop.

And with her pulse roaring in her ears, Freddie gaped at Kyle. “Are you okay?”

He didn’t answer. He was angling back to see who stood in the road. “Oh no,” he moaned. “It’s the sheriff. I almost hit the sheriff. ”

“Well, you clearly have a talent for something,” Freddie consoled.

Sheriff Rita Bowman’s heart-shaped face appeared at the window. She rapped her knuckles against the glass, to which Kyle emitted another groan.

“Jesus, Friedman.” Bowman glowered at him once the window was down. “I ought to write you a ticket. Are you stoned again?”

Kyle grimaced. “N-no, ma’am.”

“Gellar?” Bowman asked, her blue eyes sliding to Freddie. “What the hell are you doing with this knucklehead?”

Freddie gulped. Bowman’s eyes were such a pale, crystal blue. Like ice on the lake during winter. They were terrifying, really, and they made Freddie want to offer up every illegal (or even slightly immoral) thing she’d ever done.

For that reason alone, she just adored Rita Bowman. One day, she was going to be just like her. The summers she’d spent riding with Bowman throughout the Berm area had been the best summers of her life. She’d felt so at home in the squad car.

And while sure, Freddie had also been unable to escape the inevitable thoughts of her dad—like wondering if he’d ever sat in the same seat where she’d sat at the station’s front desk or if he’d ever also complained that the coffeemaker was utter crap—she’d used the opportunities as training.

Tamp down thoughts. Tamp down feelings. Focus only on the task at hand.

Which was what Freddie did right now as she tried desperately not to offer up all her secrets to Sheriff Bowman.

“Why aren’t the both of you at the football game?” Bowman asked.

“I find the sport barbaric,” Freddie answered at the same moment Kyle offered, “I was there. The Lumberjacks were winning.”

“So why’d you leave?” She frowned at Kyle. Then at Freddie. “And where are you two going right now?”

“Fortin Pr—”

“Kyle’s house,” Freddie interrupted.

And somehow, Bowman’s expression soured even more. “God, Friedman. I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear you.” She pointed at Freddie. “And I’m gonna pretend I believe you. Now move along—”

“Wait!” Freddie lurched her seat-belted body at the sheriff. “What are you doing out here?”

“And what’s that smell?” Kyle’s nose wrinkled.

Freddie blinked. Then sniffed. Sure enough, there was a decidedly dead odor in the air.

Her skin crawled. She’d smelled this exactly on Wednesday night in the fog.

“I’m cleaning up roadkill,” the sheriff muttered, obviously displeased by this activity.

“And I’m checking the roads for… unsavory critters.

” At Freddie’s and Kyle’s blank looks, she added, “I keep getting complaints of animals—mostly raccoons and turkeys—crossing the road in huge numbers. So I’m looking into it. ”

“But that’s not your job.”

“Nope,” Bowman admitted with a shrug, “but my family has a saying: On n’est jamais si bien servi que par soi-même .”

Kyle cocked his head to the side. “Huh?”

“It wasn’t English,” Freddie murmured.

“Oh.”

Bowman just glared. “It means one is never better served than by oneself. In other words, if I want this done right, I need to do it. It’s less hassle for me to look into these roaming animals than it is to deal with County Animal Control.”

“Have you found anything?” Freddie asked, curiosity building in her belly. “Like, why are they all roaming? That seems weird.”

“Eh.” Bowman shrugged with just the perfect amount of Agent Dana Scully skepticism.

“Or maybe it’s just a natural migration cycle, Freddie.

Either way, you two be careful, okay? Especially you, Gellar.

” She leveled a cool stare onto Freddie.

“You’ve had enough excitement lately. And it’s not just turkeys that are on the move.

I’ve had reports of coyotes and wolves too. ”

“Cool.” Kyle perked up.

Bowman sneered. “Not cool, kid. Wolves can rip you to shreds. Coyotes too, so just stay out of the park and be smart.” She backed up a step and then, almost as an afterthought, added, “And watch the damned road, Friedman. Or next time I’ll arrest you.”

The cul-de-sac was exactly as Kyle had described, a gravel spot set at the end of a long, unfinished road that Mrs. Elliot had thought would be a great spot for vacation rentals.

She’d been an out-of-towner, so the Bermians had already disliked her on principle.

Add in the fact that she’d wanted to bring in more out-of-towners, and she had become public enemy number one.

To absolutely no one’s surprise except perhaps her own, Mrs. Elliot’s permit requests had been denied. Eventually, she’d gone back whence she came with only this road to linger—a warning that Berm did not take kindly to tourists who overstayed their welcome.

Laina’s mom’s Volvo was already at the abandoned cul-de-sac when Kyle pulled up, and Cat’s old Taurus joined them three seconds later. Everyone convened at Kyle’s trunk, where he opened the door with much fanfare.

And revealed ten industrial jugs of corn syrup.

“ This is your plan?” Freddie chewed her lip.

All this time, they’d been driving with sugary contraband in the trunk, and she’d had no idea.

Thank goodness Sheriff Bowman hadn’t seen this.

There would have been no plausible explanation that Freddie could have conjured for possessing so much corn syrup, and knowing Kyle, he would have just blurted out the truth anyway.

“It was one of the ideas in the Official Log,” Cat explained. She leaned into the trunk, looking enviously stylish and totally Bond-worthy in her pleather pants, black boots, and fitted turtleneck. She lugged out the nearest jug.

Kyle hauled out a second and third. “We’ll pour it all over their bleachers. Just in time for the big soccer match with Elmore.” He offered Freddie a green-eyed wink. “Sticky asses for the rich pricks!”

Freddie’s heart fluttered.