Page 24 of Traitor
Chapter Nine
Peyton
The gnawing sensationof my stomach trying to cannibalize itself wakes me, and the moment I open my eyes, I realize it’s not because I’m hungry.
I’m as far from hungry as it’s possible to be. In fact, the mere thought of food makes me want to sprint to the bathroom and vomit. A cold, sour sweat coats my skin, leaving me clammy and sticky, despite the shower I’d taken the night before.
Because I want to curl under the blankets and pretend like nothing’s changed, I force myself out of bed and pad across the room to throw open the curtains. My hands grip the frame until the urge to fling them closed subsides. In the distance, I can see police vehicles and even farther out, boats on the water slowly gliding back and forth across its surface.
So, it wasn’t a dream.
No, it’s a waking nightmare.
As soon as I finish talking to the sheriff again, to see if he found anything, I’m going to cancel the rest of my reservation and get the heck out of Dodge. I have no intention of repeating past mistakes and can find another paradise to paint. Moving on would be the best for everyone involved. The decision makes my stomach settle and I dress quickly, wanting to get it all over with so I can move on.
My cell rings before I can leave the room. Uncle Bradley again.
Knowing if I ignore his call, it will only cause him to be more relentless, I answer. “Hello?”
“Peyton,” he responds, and by the grave tone in his voice, I can tell that whatever reason he’s calling for can’t be a good one.
“Uncle Bradley? Is everything okay?”
His sigh fills my ears. “Unfortunately, no, sweetheart. I have some bad news, and I think the best way to handle it is to just tell you right out.”
I sit on the edge of the bed. “What is it?”
“The money in your trust…it’s gone.”
The tension goes out of my body and my insides turn to liquid. “Gone? How could it be gone?”
My brain blanks and I have to ask him to repeat his answer. Even then, I only catch a few words: lawyer, stole, embezzle, police. I don’t know how I manage to have a coherent conversation with him because the buzzing in my head is so loud, I can hardly think.
“Uncle Bradley?” I interrupt when I can’t listen any longer. “I have to go. No, I’m sorry,” I say before he can convince me to keep talking. “I’ll call you later and we’ll talk more about it.”
I feel bad for hanging up on him mid-sentence, but any more and I would have screamed. No more money in the trust. The trust that had paid for my therapy, the mortgage and upkeep on my parents’ house. The trust I’d been depending on for my little wild adventure. Gone.
Defeated, I decide to skip doing my makeup. Who cares what I look like? I certainly don’t. I want to get this over with.
The downstairs is full of people with their faces pressed against the glass window, watching the spectacle on the other side. The low murmur of their voices echoes up to the second floor. My stomach turns as I descend the stairs and I pass a hand over my hair out of habit, wondering if they’re already gossiping about me. Certainly they couldn’t have found out about my past so quickly.
My presence goes relatively unnoticed until I step into the front desk’s line of sight, where Nell spots me and comes out proffering a steaming mug of coffee. “I made it the way you like,” she says with a motherly smile that goes straight to my tender heart.
I accept the mug and try to look around for Ford without being obvious. “Thank you, that’s very sweet. Um, do you know where I can find the sheriff?”
She goes back behind the counter and adjusts her glasses with a mournful sound. “He should be back any minute. Why don’t you wait in Ford’s office for them?”
The thought of being surrounded by his things, in his space, makes me take a step backward. I want to keep as much distance between us as possible. Call it paranoia, call it self-preservation. It doesn’t matter. Ford is an enigma I have no interest in solving.
“That’s okay,” I tell Nell, “I think I’ll wait out here. Do they have any updates?” I can’t help but ask.
Nell leans over the counter, propping her chin on her hand. “Ford asked Hadley to keep things quiet, for the time being.” Her Southern accent clips the end of the wordbeingintobeen.
“I’m sure he did,” I mutter, thinking of the conversation I had with his niece. Who had he been accused of killing and how had he gotten away with it? Nell and the others seem to like him, but there are charismatic people who hide their evil alter egos all the time. I know that all too well.
Except Ford is as opposite from charismatic as it’s possible to be. You’d think if he were guilty he’d try a little more to clear suspicion, rather than attract it by being so confrontational. I recall the argument with the woman a few days ago. No, Ford certainly doesn’t have a problem with getting on someone’s bad side.
“What’s that, dear?” Nell asks.