The Sinners of Saint Amos - Logan Fox Page 0,193

down, opposite side of the road. I slow down, slip behind a bushy shrub, and stretch like I’ve got a cramp. But all the while peeking at them through a gap in the foliage.

A minute later they get out of the car. Reuben first, his head turning all directions as if he’s scouting for danger.

Then Cass.

Then Apollo.

But they just stand there, talking. Watching.

I peer down my side of the road. There are a few trees and shrubs I could use as cover, but I have no idea which house they’re targeting. I could end up jogging right into their line of sight.

Reuben turns and looks straight at me.

I throw myself back, stumble over a fucking garden gnome, and land flat on my ass.

As I’m about to get up, I hear a door open behind me. I look back as an old lady walks out onto her porch. She scans her lawn, and despite her thick glasses—or perhaps because of them—sees me.

Shit.

I get up, trying not to bolt, and then stop when I feel a tug on my pants leg.

Christ, I’ve gotten my jeans hooked in a thorn.

The old lady’s garden isn’t quite as well kept as the others around here. Her roses, for instance, are the kind you’d expect growing wild around a mansion where neighborhood kids dare each other to knock on the door.

I yank at my pants, and that shakes the entire row of fucking roses.

If Reuben is still looking this way, it would look mighty suspicious.

So I fall into a crouch and do my best to unhook my jeans without rustling as much as a single leaf.

“Everything all right, dearie?” a thin, wobbly voice wants to know.

I glance up into a pair of watery blue eyes, and give the old woman the most charming smile I have. “Got a little stuck on your roses,” I tell her through my teeth.

“They are magnificent, aren’t they?” she wheezes, clasping her hands at her breast as if she’s offering up a prayer to God for her killer botanicals.

Another subtle yank, and finally my jeans are free. But I don’t stand yet, because that would put my head and shoulders above the rose bush. I don’t want to reveal myself until I know what the hell they’re up to. And the last thing they need is a distraction.

I glance around. I could head back the way I came, but Mrs. Nosy’s yard is wide open but for this thorny hedge.

“Are you with the church?” Mrs. Nosy wants to know.

I stare up at her with a frown. Dressed in a hoody? In what world could I possibly—

But then her eyes move down my chest, fix on something there a second, and fly back to my eyes. Her smile brightens a little.

I look down too, to see what she finds so fascinating.

Trinity’s crucifix. Blood red against my gray hoody. Impossible to miss. It must have come out while I was jogging, or when I landed on my ass beside her roses.

Mrs. Nosy beckons me with a frail hand. “Why don’t you come inside, dear? I’ll fix you a glass of lemonade.”

I feel like I’ve stepped through a portal back to the eighties where old ladies go around offering cold beverages to any sweaty teen that happens to come within yelling distance of their whitewashed porches.

But my options are limited. If I break cover, my brothers could see me. If I go inside with the nice lady and let her pour me a drink, I could wait them out. Keep track of them on my phone. Fuck, I might even give them a call and see if they pick up.

Don’t know what I’d even say if they did, but I’d think of something.

The old woman’s name is Langley, and she’s a Mizzz because her husband died a long time ago.

I’m starting to think she had ulterior motives for the lemonade, especially when she puts down a plate of cookies too. I ignore them—I haven’t touched refined sugar for many years. I don’t plan on falling off that wagon any time soon, so I only take imaginary sips from the glass of lemonade.

“Are you one of the new missionary boys they told us about on Sunday?” Miss Langley asks.

I would have choked on my cold drink if I’d actually been drinking it. “Missionary boy?”

“For the mission to Ghana.” Langley beams, which happens anytime she mentions the church.

Now I’m convinced this is Trinity’s old haunt. It could just be this one biddy, but I have a