Page 21 of Your Every Wish

Easy. I don’t even have to spend a second thinking up my answers.

“Before my car was totaled—the idiot texting’s fault, not mine—Dex used to come over every couple of nights and move it for me in the dark, so I wouldn’t get a ticket for parking in one place too long.

When I had Covid, he sent Grubhub to my door everyday with delicious meals from restaurants all over the city. ”

“Okay, that’s two. What’s the third?”

“He paid off my student loans. Don’t tell anyone.”

“Who am I going to tell? But why? Why do you want to keep it secret? Even I have to admit that’s pretty amazing. Was it a lot of money?”

“Ten thousand. I worked and paid for most of my tuition myself with help from my mom. But between books, housing, and living expenses . . . it was too much for even the both of us, so I took out loans. After graduating, I paid down as much as I could, but the interest was killing me. Then six months ago, Dex surprised me for my birthday and paid the whole thing off. It’s a little embarrassing.

I’m a grown-ass woman with a stable career. I should pay my own debts.”

“It’s a hell of a birthday gift for sure. Okay, perhaps I’m misjudging him.” Kennedy pauses. “Willy should’ve paid for your school. He should’ve paid for mine, too. Did your mom ever ask him to?”

I didn’t think Willy owed me a thing. He wasn’t in my life, and I wasn’t in his. We were strangers. Besides, I was perfectly capable of earning money to pay for my own school, even if Dex did help out in the long run. “I don’t think so. Did your mom?”

“I doubt it,” Kennedy says. “He never paid child support, so it stood to reason that he wasn’t going to pay my college tuition. And it wasn’t like Madge could afford it.”

“When did she stop dancing?” According to Mom, Kennedy’s mother was a “budget version of a Rockette” and performed in one of the longest running variety shows at the MGM.

“About nine years ago. It’s really hard on your joints and the money sucked. A friend, who works in admin at Caesars, got her the job in bookkeeping. It’s steady hours with benefits. She could make a decent living if she stopped squandering her money on her loser boyfriends.”

Madge Jenkins sounded like a real piece of work.

“Speaking of, how did it go with Sam?” We hadn’t had a chance to discuss her meeting. With Dex around there was never a good time to talk.

“Good.” She changes lanes to avoid a slow-moving tractor trailer trying to climb the grade. “He’s a really nice man, and I think a good lawyer. Thank you for asking him to do this for me. You didn’t have to, but you did anyway. I want you to know how much I appreciate it.”

“Of course.”

“Really,” she says. “No one has ever gone this much out of their way for me.”

I can tell that admission doesn’t come easy for her and to save us both from embarrassment, I simply nod and drop the subject entirely.

“He’s going to get in touch with Brock Sterling’s lawyer and see if they’ll call off the dogs if I pay him back the money with interest,” she volunteers.

“How are you planning to do that?”

She cuts me a look. “Sell my share of the park or find Willy’s money. Misty says it’s not a suitcase.”

It takes me a second to follow. “A, how does Misty know? And B, what does the key go to, then?”

“I don’t know but I plan to find out. Harry says she’s a witch. ”

I laugh. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope. Ask anyone at Cedar Pines. She’s worked for police departments finding missing people. I’m sure it’s a lot of bullshit. But she swears she never met Willy and didn’t know about the key until she saw it in a vision. You think it’s a trick?”

“What kind of trick? I mean, what’s in it for her to lie?”

“Don’t tell me you believe she’s psychic or a witch, or whatever woo-woo weirdness she claims.”

I shrug. “She knew about the key. I’m not saying that makes her a witch but there’s something there—extrasensory perception, telepathy, psychokinesis.

It’s not that out of the ordinary. People write me all the time about incidents where they’ve foretold the future.

One woman saw her husband getting bitten by a dog two days before it happened.

Another said she managed to lift a six-thousand-pound Ford F-150 with her bare hands when it collapsed on top of her son while he was trying to fix a flat tire.

It’s a wild and crazy world out there. ”

“I’m still not buying it. You mind if we stop to get a coffee? The sign said there’s a Starbucks at the next exit.”

“Not at all.” I never had breakfast this morning and am starving.

Kennedy switches lanes and exits on Foresthill Road, which spills out onto an intersection with a gas station, Motel 6, and a restaurant called Raggedy Annie’s.

“Where do you think the Starbucks is?”

We’re only twenty minutes or so from Ghost but I’m unfamiliar with this particular area.

I assume it’s a popular stopping point off Interstate 80 for Bay Area motorists on their way to Tahoe, given that it’s one of the last exits before chains are required to get up the grade.

In heavy storms, the 80 shuts down entirely, hence the Motel 6.

“I have no idea.” I look to the right and don’t see anything but another gas station. To the left is a shuttered fruit stand and a vacant field.

“You want to just go to that restaurant?” She points her chin at Raggedy Annie’s, which looks like a glorified truck stop.

The driver behind us toots his horn for us to get a move on, so Kennedy pulls into the restaurant’s dirt parking lot.

“Why not? Let’s check it out,” I say. To me anything is better than soggy croissants and too-sweet muffins from Starbucks.

The place is huge, with multiple dining rooms and a full-service bar packed to the gunnels with diners drinking Bloody Marys.

“It’s cute,” I say, gazing at the shelves lined with Raggedy Ann dolls, which I guess is the theme of the restaurant.

A little creepy but whatever. There’s a trompe l’oeil painting of a window with shutters and walls covered with rolling pins, a collection of bowling trophies, old Western signs, and an assemblage of odd bric-a-brac.

“Judging by the crowds it must be good,” Kennedy says.

We put our name on a list with the hostess and wait to be called.

Ten minutes later, we’re seated at a two top next to a gas fireplace with a couple of menus and a list of daily specials.

At the table next to us sit four uniformed sheriff’s deputies, each eating a heaping plate of huevos rancheros.

They must be good here and the portion sizes are enough to choke a horse.

Kennedy catches my eye and surreptitiously bobs her head at the cops.

“I doubt they have any idea that you’re a dangerous criminal wanted in Nevada and are on the lam,” I whisper.

She gives me the finger. “Do you think Sam has talked to Mr. Sterling yet?”

“It’s the weekend. He’ll probably wait until Monday. But have you checked your phone?”

She fishes it out of her purse and begins to scroll. “Nothing. Just Madge.”

I’ll give it to Kennedy’s mother; she does call a lot.

Despite what she did to Kennedy, they do seem to have a close relationship.

I’m trying not to be too hard on her. As I’ve learned from being an advice columnist, people have all kinds of reasons for the things they do, for the actions they take.

Until I’ve walked a mile in Madge Jenkins’s shoes, I have no business passing judgment.

“What are you getting?” Kennedy asks while perusing the specials.

I haven’t had a chance to look yet and start flipping through the pages. The menu is as thick as the Old Testament.

One of the deputies approaches our table and Kennedy’s hands clench. Even I stop breathing for a second, until he says, “You mind if I borrow one of your hot sauces?”

There’s a caddy full of bottles in the center of our two top, including Tabasco, some kind of sriracha, and the obligatory Cholula.

“Help yourself,” I say.

He grabs the Cholula and returns to his friends. I hear Kennedy expel a breath.

“This is ridiculous,” I say in a hushed voice. “It’s not like you’re on the FBI’s most wanted list. By tomorrow this will all go away.”

The thing is, it doesn’t.