Their father who’d abandoned them. It was sad he wasn’t in the picture, but then again, it was probably for the best. He was a shitty husband. Manipulative and a real pig. His dropping out of their lives sucked, but Dad stepped up. He was trying to fill the empty space.
“What do we do?” Becca asked.
I looked out the window at the dark bushes on our side that divided our property from his. The Anderson house sat next door with all its lights on. He was there.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“I don’t want to sit around and watch it happen,” Becca said.
I agreed with her, but I wasn’t sure I had my mother’s courage.
CHAPTER 8
COLT
Iwas enjoying my second cup of coffee, watching the waves, when my phone rang. It was one of the contractors, a local guy named Pete, who told me I needed to get down to the building. He wouldn’t tell me what it was but I could tell it was bad.
“Hey, I’ve got to go down to the site,” I shouted through the bathroom door.
Cody was taking the longest shower in the history of showers. He’d been out late. I wasn’t entirely sure he was in the shower alone. I didn’t want to get an eyeful by opening the door.
Fifteen minutes later, I pulled the convertible up to the curb on Front Street and cut the engine. I smelled it immediately and almost put the top up. I didn’t want the stench seeping into the leather seats.
“Oh, shit,” I breathed against the back of my hand. Literally, shit.
I climbed out of the car and tried not to gag. I pulled my T-shirt up over my mouth and nose. It didn’t do much. Just filtered the stench.
I looked at the sidewalk that was covered in seaweed and dog shit. Could have been other shit. The sun was baking the piles of seaweed. It hung from the door handles and the window frames.It was piled against the foundation in thick, wet ropes that were already starting to cook in the heat.
With the amount of dog shit smeared on the windows and all around, it was like the vandal had worked as a pooper scooper for the last three years. How many dogs were in Surfside? There couldn’t be a single turd left. It was all here.
It was a statement. The kind of thing that required planning and commitment, and access to a truly remarkable number of dogs.
Pete was standing on the sidewalk with his arms crossed and his expression somewhere between amused and horrified. He had a bandana pulled up over his nose like an old west outlaw. Smart man. I wished I had one.
“Morning,” he said.
“When did this happen?”
“Sometime overnight.”
I walked a slow loop around the building, breathing through my mouth the best I could. The vandalism was thorough. Whoever had done this had covered the full perimeter. I spotted what looked like hand-lettered signs tucked into the seaweed on both sides of the entrance. I leaned in close enough to read them without touching anything.
SURFSIDE IS NOT FOR SALE.
And on the other side:GO HOME.
I straightened up and looked out at Front Street. The morning foot traffic was already picking up. Tourists with coffee cups. Two old men on a bench sharing a newspaper. They were trying very hard to look like they weren’t gossiping about me and my building.
I should say I was surprised but I wasn’t. Not really. Small towns were never thrilled about development. They liked to keep things just the way they were. I didn’t expect them to be quite this pissed, though.
I heard a car before I saw it. The engine was a high-pitched whine. A sleek black sports car swung around the corner on two wheels.
Judd hopped out of the car and stopped when the smell hit him. He put his hand over his nose and mouth.
“What the hell?” he asked.
That wasn’t a question that was meant to be answered.