Reclaim - Aly Martinez Page 0,2

I repeated, quickly righting it before any of the creepy crawlers had a chance to escape. When I was sure my bounty of disgustingness was safe, I snapped my head up to make sure I wasn’t about to be murdered.

A boy around my age was standing a few feet away, wearing khaki slacks, an ugly striped button-down, penny loafers—the kind with the actual penny tucked in the slit—and a smug grin that did not bode well for my quiet afternoon alone. Especially since he was holding a bucket that matched mine.

Rising to my feet, I put my filthy hand to my eyes to block the sun cascading through the trees. I’d only lived in Clovert for four years, but it was a small town, so I’d met or knew of just about everyone.

Everyone except this sandy-brown haired boy with the most incredible baby-blue eyes I would ever see.

“Depends. Who’s asking?”

He laughed and his short, curly hair ruffled in the breeze. “I’m Camden.”

“Camden like the city?”

The amusement on his face never left as he twisted his lips. “Well, no. It’s Camden like my dad. Who was named after his dad. Who was named after his dad. But his dad might have been named after the city.” He lifted a skinny shoulder in a half shrug. “Anyway, I’m Camden Cole.”

Camden Cole? What the flippity flapping kind of snobby, rich kid name was that?

We didn’t have many wealthy people in Clovert, but old Southern money sometimes came home to retire or raise their family away from the big city. Though we didn’t have a private school, so none of this explained why I’d never seen this kid before.

“How old are you?” I asked.

“Twelve.”

Hmmm, only a year older than I was. I definitely would have remembered those eyes if I’d seen him at school.

“Where do you live?”

“Alberton.”

I almost choked on my tongue. Ohhhh-kay. So probably not one of the rich kids.

Our little farming town with all of two stoplights and one grocery store was bad enough, but Alberton was next-level awful. It was over three hours away, but I’d been there a couple of times. Back when my dad had been a trucker—and occasionally sober—he’d make hauls out there. Being young, dumb, and desperate for his attention, I’d thought it was fun to ride along, but there was absolutely nothing in Alberton but a papermill, poor people, and the stomach-churning aroma of rotten eggs.

My dad had told me it stunk because of the papermill, but that town looked like it was less than a week away from a zombie apocalypse, so I had my doubts.

“What are you doing here, then? Are you a hitchhiker? Serial killer? Circus performer?” Tipping my chin up, I gave him another once-over.

He looked harmless enough. Scrawny. Preppy. Dorky. I might have been small, but I’d grown up with a brother who thought tickling me until I peed my pants was an Olympic sport. I probably could have taken this kid if he tried to start anything.

Camden shook his head, a bright white smile splitting his mouth. “Nah. My parents sent me here to spend the summer with my grandparents. I think I’m supposed to be helping them out around the house, but I just make my grandpa mad all the time.” He set the bucket down at his feet and shrugged. “I figure, if I tell my parents I got a job, then they can’t be too angry I skipped out on gardening with Grandpa.” He leaned forward and took a peek in my bucket. “So anyway, detective. If you’re done with my interrogation, I’ll repeat… Catch anything good?”

My shoulders sagged. I hadn’t, and the dollar signs I’d been hoping for were fading by the second. “Not really. If you’re after money, you’d be better off going back to Mr. Leonard and asking if he needs help in the fields.”

“Then what would I do with all these?” He smiled, tipping his bucket so I could see inside.

Sweet baby Jesus, there must have been at least a hundred worms in there.

I lunged toward him. “Where’d you get all those?”

“Depends. Who’s asking?” He quirked his brow mischievously.

Rolling my eyes, I muttered, “I’m Nora.”

He sauntered over to one of the large rocks next to the water and thoroughly brushed it off before sinking down on top of it. The reflection off his perfectly polished penny loafers nearly blinded me. “Last name?”

“Stewart.”

“You related to Mr. Leonard?”

“No.”

“How’d you get this job?”

“Jeez, who’s the detective now?” I fired a scowl in his direction. “I saw