Cut & Run (A Rachel Scott Adventure) - By Traci Hohenstein Page 0,2
walked through the gate and disappeared. I started to follow him to lock the gate, but something stopped me. I looked up at the second-story window and saw my wife peeking out through the blinds. She quickly shut them. As I stared at the window, I tried to shake off my uneasy feeling.
I headed back inside. “Time to go!” I yelled from the kitchen. I heard the kids bounding down the stairs. When they reached the kitchen, I instructed them to get in the truck and wait for me.
When I walked into the family room, Erin had her back to me and was rooting around in her purse. She was dressed in khaki shorts and a white T-shirt.
“You don’t have to come if you’re not feeling well,” I told her.
When she turned around, I saw that she was wearing dark sunglasses. She had a smile on her face. The one where her lips were tightly shut and the corners of her mouth were struggling to maintain an upward battle. I instantly recognized that kind of smile. It was usually reserved for when she was trying to act like everything was okay but was mad or upset. I usually ran the other way when I saw that smile. But now I just wanted her to come out with it so we could go back to being honest with each other.
“Is there anything you want to tell me?”
“I’m fine.” Erin slung her purse over her shoulder. “Who was that man?”
“Just some homeless guy.”
Erin raised her left eyebrow. “You didn’t give him money, did you?”
I shrugged.
She shook her head and walked toward the back door.
This is how we communicated lately. With body language instead of honest words. Sometimes I felt more like her child than her husband.
“You sure you’re okay?” I called after her. She still looked a little pale, and it worried me.
“Yeah, of course.”
I felt my concern ease a little. It seemed she wanted to pretend things were normal as much as I did.
“I need to drop off a painting with someone at Antoine’s on the way home if we have time.”
“Do you need me to grab it from the studio?”
“I can get it.”
Fifteen minutes later, we were on our way to the city park. As we drove down St. Charles Avenue, I looked for Moses, but didn’t see him. I thought about his white smile and unusual name.
Practice went well, as usual. But the whole time, I couldn’t get Moses out of my mind. The more I thought about him, the more I was sure that I knew him from somewhere. I didn’t think he was a past client, but O’Malley Bail Bonds had helped thousands of people and I couldn’t remember all of them. We had what my brother termed “frequent flyers”—those people who we’d bail out of jail on a monthly basis—and I was pretty sure Moses was not one of those.
On the ride home, Chris called to see if we needed anything from the store. “Baking potatoes,” I told him after consulting with Erin. I let Chris know that we’d be running a few minutes late since Erin needed to drop off a painting to a client.
After stopping at a gas station to fill up the Durango, we headed for the French Quarter. Antoine’s was a popular French Creole restaurant for tourists and locals alike. I knew Erin was excited to finally get her artwork displayed there. As we were on the outskirts of the Quarter, I heard a thump come from the back of the truck and felt the vehicle become suddenly unsteady on the road.
“Damn. I think we have a flat.” I pulled the Durango over in an empty parking lot that faced the area known as the Riverwalk. “Stay here, I’ll check it out.”
I got out and inspected the rear tires. As I’d suspected, the left rear tire was flat, and I could see a gaping hole in it.
How the hell did that happen? I thought to myself. Just as I was getting up, I felt a hand on my shoulder. For the second time in the space of a couple of hours, my heart thumped loudly in my chest and an uneasy feeling washed over me and made the hair stand up on the back of my neck.
I slowly turned and came face-to-face with the figure standing behind me. “What the hell are you doing here?”
CHAPTER 2
Rachel Scott let her paddleboard drift through the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico. She felt