Page 42 of Your Every Wish

“Should we show it to Azriel?” Emma says.

Liam shakes his head. “This isn’t really in his wheelhouse.”

“That’s because it’s ridiculous. Seriously, who does something like this? If he’s trying to hide money from the FBI why would we be any better at figuring this out”—I pull the notebook away from Liam and wave it in the air—“than they would? He’s just fucking with us from the grave.”

“He bought Cedar Pines Estates under a limited liability corporation,” Emma reminds me. “The FBI or the Justice Department might not know about it. But we do. Perhaps he’d hoped that we would get to the money first.”

“Then why not tell Townsend to simply tell us where the money is? Or better yet, just leave us the money in his will and have Townsend write us a check, like a normal person.” To be this close and still as clueless as when we first started is making me want to break things.

The room goes silent, and Emma gives me a pointed stare. We all get exactly what she isn’t saying. “That’s something we need to consider. Even if we find the money, we may not be able to keep it.”

“I’m keeping it. He owes us, Emma. This is our rightful inheritance.”

“What Emma is trying to say is—”

“I know what Emma is saying, Liam. I don’t need an interrupter. I need that money.”

“Kennedy”—Emma takes my hand—“that money could land you in worse trouble than you’re already in.”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.” What else am I going to do? I’ve got Brock Sterling breathing down my neck, my career on the line, my future at stake. A little dirty money seems the lesser of those three evils.

“Misty, are you seeing anything that could help?” Liam asks. “Do you think if you took some time, you could pinpoint what the stacks refer to ? It seems important.”

“All I can do is try.”

Unfortunately, she appears to be our only hope. God save us.

* * *

I’ve spent the last two days dodging calls from Madge.

I just don’t have the wherewithal to deal with her.

There’s nothing new to tell her and at the rate we’re going we may never find the money.

Emma and I have read Willy’s riddle two hundred times between us and still can’t make sense of it.

In fact, it gets more confusing every time we read it.

Okay, we all agree that “In the shade of towering pines, a cedar stands tall, its presence defines” represents Cedar Pines Estates.

Willy is telling us that the bag is somewhere here.

But the part that flummoxes us time and time again is the line about the golf bag (at least according to our loose interpretation, it’s the golf bag) being buried in the “dry stacks, where courts reside.” What does that even mean?

Short of turning over every plot of dirt in the park—and maybe every trailer, too—where do we even start?

“I’m going for a run,” I yell to Emma, who’s still in her room either talking to Dex, who calls as often as Madge now, or doling out advice to the pitiful.

I do a few stretches before starting off.

The upside of moving here, if there is an upside, is that I’ve gotten into pretty good shape.

I’m up to three miles without breaking a sweat.

Okay, it’s been in the low fifties, too cold to break a sweat.

But at least I’m not doubling over and gasping for breath, like the first few times I ran the loop.

That’s what I’ve taken to calling it. The loop.

It’s the trail that goes from our trailer, past Liam’s to the creek, then past Rondi’s and the Bird Man of Alcatraz’s, to the clubhouse.

If I’m not ambushed by the canasta ladies, who try to peg me down on when I’m going to fix the toilet and the leaky roof, I circle back past the bocce ball courts, past the tennis courts and the stinky pond until I wind up at the creek again. Then back the way I came.

It’s unbelievably scenic, despite the park’s state of disrepair.

And the air never ceases to amaze me. Today, it smells like rain, coppery and earthy.

I’ve never been what you would call an outdoorsy person, but here I find that I look for every opportunity to be in nature.

Then again, I’d probably enjoy the fires of hell if it meant getting me out of that trailer.

To be fair, I’ve lived in worse. For four weeks, Madge and I lived in her friend’s seven-by-sixteen-foot Airstream in a Walmart parking lot when Mom was out of work.

One year, we moved fifteen times, each place worse than the last. Madge would split whenever she didn’t have rent money, which was most of the time.

She always spent it faster than she made it.

At least the trailer is spacious and each of us has our own bathroom. There was a time when I would’ve killed for that. But it still has that funky smell that never quite seems to go away. And living with a dead woman’s possessions is depressing.

I check my watch to gauge my time. One mile in eleven minutes, not bad. By the time I get to the clubhouse, I’m getting a second wind and contemplate tacking on an extra half mile. I can swing around the bocce ball courts and head to the entry sign and back.

I get as far as the highway when the sky opens up, and it starts to pour.

I could smell it coming, the scent of fresh earth in the air.

But I suspected it would only spit. This, though, is a freaking deluge.

I slip out of my windbreaker and put it over my head, which in hindsight makes me cold and does very little to protect me from the rain.

I start to head back when a big black pickup truck skids to a halt in front of me. The passenger widow slides down and none other than Bent McCourtney wants to know if I want a ride.

“That’s okay.” I wave him on.

“You sure?”

The rain is coming down so hard I can barely see in front of me and I’m dripping wet. “All right.”

He leans across the cab and pushes open the door for me to get in. I have to use his running board to hoist myself up. The truck is so high, he must be compensating for something.

“You look like a drowned rat.” That’s what he says to me. Not hello. Not How are you? Not even I’ll crank up the heat so you can get warm because I’ve begun shivering. Just “You look like a drowned rat.”

I remove my jacket off my head and make sure to let it drip in his lap.

“Which way?”

“Straight, then hang a right on Ponderosa and follow the sign to the office.”

“Why were you running in the rain?” He takes the rutted road, which doesn’t feel nearly as bumpy in his all-wheel drive.

“It wasn’t raining when I started. It just opened up on me.”

“Yeah, it’ll do that up here.”

“Let me ask you something. Did Sheila Bruin tip you off that we may be putting Cedar Pines on the market?”

His lips curve up. “She might’ve said something. Why?”

“Because it wasn’t her place to tell anyone. I find it very unprofessional and won’t use her as our agent if we ever do decide to sell.”

“Let me get this straight. You tell a real estate agent you may want to sell. She tries to bring you a buyer and you’re pissed off about that? That doesn’t make a lick of sense.”

“Well, it wouldn’t to you because you’re a bottom-feeder.”

He tilts his head back and laughs. “A bottom-feeder?”

“Twenty thousand dollars for a profitable eighty-six-acre resort in one of the most scenic areas in America. That was just insulting.”

“You got one of the most scenic areas in America right, if not the most scenic. Profitable and resort is a stretch, though. But yeah, I may have low-balled you a bit. I’m a businessman.”

“And a bottom-feeder.”

“Kennedy, if you want to sell, I’m interested. Give me a price and we’ll take it from there.”

“I already told you that we’ve decided to hang on to the place.”

“Right. How’s the soundstage and the pickleball courts coming along?”

“We’re a little strapped for cash right now. But when my late father’s estate is settled, we’ll be flush.”

“The great Willy Keil, huh?”

I jolt forward. Maybe Bent has a clue to the mystery of why Willy bought a broken-down trailer park. “You knew him?”

“Never had the pleasure. But he sounded like a real character. This it?” He pulls into the driveway of the office, aka my trailer, and turns off his engine. “I’m sorry for your and Emma’s loss.”

“How do you know about him?”

“He bought this place right out from under me.”

“The two of you were in a bidding war?”

“Some LLC and I were in a bidding war. I didn’t realize it was him until I met you. Then I did a little research.”

“So, you never met him?”

“Nope. Seems to me he bought the place, then never stepped foot on it. And if he did, it’s news to me. Of course, not too long after he was . . .”

“Arrested and convicted of insider trading.” No need to candy-coat it.

“Unfortunate thing that was. And the park—excuse me, I mean resort ”—he smirks—“continues to go to hell. But now that you and your sister are here, help is on its way, right?”

“Are you always this sarcastic and rude?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

The rain is coming down in sheets now with no sign that it’ll let up anytime soon. I tell myself it’s the reason I haven’t fled the warmth of his truck yet.

“You must have a hard time winning people over with that glowing personality of yours,” I say.

“Nope. People around here seem to like me. A lot.”

“There is no accounting for bad taste.”

Another bark of laughter from him. At least he gets as good as he gives.

“Glad I happened to drive by when you needed a ride.” He eyes the passenger door, a subtle signal—okay, not so subtle—to get out.

“Thanks,” I say begrudgingly. “Stay dry.” Or drown.

I hop out and land in a puddle, splattering water all over myself. Smooth move. I turn to see if he saw but he’s already backing out of the driveway.

At the door, I shed my wet and muddy shoes and hang my jacket on Ginger’s hall tree. Emma’s sitting at the kitchen table, flipping through a photo album that looks vaguely familiar.

“Who was that?” she asks absently.