subsided, after a night of sleeplessness and a hell of a lot of pain medication. He slipped out of the room, carefully making his way down the stairs. Only a little bit of natural light illuminated the hallway; it had to have been early in the morning, his alarm hadn’t even gone off yet.
“Who...who are you?” he heard Sarah’s voice say. He recognized it; she had a very distinct, warm tone. He had often noted the difference between her deeper voice and Nora’s high-pitched nagging. “Why are you in this home?”
Nick relaxed, a little. Of course he should have known Sarah would be here, on time early in the morning before the sun even came up. He folded his knife and stuck it in his robe pocket, striding downstairs.
Bradford, the son of a bitch, sat at the dining room table with a newspaper, drinking coffee out of an unfamiliar mug. Nick assumed he must have brought it with him along with the rest of his junk. The girlfriend—the illegal fiancée—had not gotten up yet, apparently, which was fine with Nick. The less he saw of the either of them, the better. They would be gone soon, anyway.
“It’s okay, Sarah,” he said, even though he ate his words. Everything was most certainly not okay.
“Bradford,” the boy said, standing up and offering his hand.
Sarah looked at Nick instead of shaking the hand. “Who is he?” she asked.
Nick realized that she held a kitchen knife in one hand. He almost started laughing. Maybe he shouldn’t have intervened; she might have actually used it on this pesky young intruder.
“A squatter,” Nick said, “a squatter in a house that isn’t even supposed to be for rent.”
He glared at Bradford as the boy launched into his previous explanation. He had it so well-rehearsed that he didn’t even have to pause to think up new ideas. Nick was impressed. The boy must have really wanted this house, and was willing to do anything—except work—to get it.
Sarah slowly put down the kitchen knife, eying Bradford warily. She wasn’t about to let her guard down, Nick could see that much.
“Mr. Donnelly, I cannot work in these conditions. I don’t even know who this young man is,” she said, pleading with him.
“Sarah, we don’t expect you to clean anything except the kitchen and living room today,” he explained. “You needn’t worry about your safety,” he added, casting another death glare at Bradford, who had sat back down and read his newspaper. “These folks wouldn’t dare try anything in someone else’s home.”
“It’s our home, too,” Bradford muttered, and Nick resisted the urge to smack his bowed head, the way his dad used to do to him if he had a smart mouth.
Sarah walked out of the kitchen, entering the living room. Nick followed her.
“Mr. Donnelly,” she glanced over his shoulder to make sure Bradford wasn’t following her. “I know that boy!”
Nick cocked his head, intrigued.
“You know him?”
Sarah nodded, eyes wide. “He was a friend of my son’s. He’s a drug dealer!” she whispered, stumbling over her words to get them out of her mouth.
“A drug dealer, eh?” Nick said, his voice equally as quiet. “That’s good to know, Sarah. Anything else you can tell me about him? We need him and his girlfriend and him out of our house, as I’m sure you can imagine.”
“Oh God, yes,” Sarah said, horrified. “Mrs. Donnelly must be a wreck—and the children!” she gasped.
“The kids are fine, they’re safe at Belinda’s house,” Nick whispered. “Sarah, what else do you know about him?”
“Only that he’s sold drugs to my son before. He threw my son under the bus in a drug case and he ended up having to serve time.”
“And Bradford?”
“Bradford isn’t his real name. It’s Peter, I think. Peter Brandt. He never got convicted. He’s so good at fooling police. That was in a different state, too. I have no idea why he’s here, doing
“Who...who are you?” he heard Sarah’s voice say. He recognized it; she had a very distinct, warm tone. He had often noted the difference between her deeper voice and Nora’s high-pitched nagging. “Why are you in this home?”
Nick relaxed, a little. Of course he should have known Sarah would be here, on time early in the morning before the sun even came up. He folded his knife and stuck it in his robe pocket, striding downstairs.
Bradford, the son of a bitch, sat at the dining room table with a newspaper, drinking coffee out of an unfamiliar mug. Nick assumed he must have brought it with him along with the rest of his junk. The girlfriend—the illegal fiancée—had not gotten up yet, apparently, which was fine with Nick. The less he saw of the either of them, the better. They would be gone soon, anyway.
“It’s okay, Sarah,” he said, even though he ate his words. Everything was most certainly not okay.
“Bradford,” the boy said, standing up and offering his hand.
Sarah looked at Nick instead of shaking the hand. “Who is he?” she asked.
Nick realized that she held a kitchen knife in one hand. He almost started laughing. Maybe he shouldn’t have intervened; she might have actually used it on this pesky young intruder.
“A squatter,” Nick said, “a squatter in a house that isn’t even supposed to be for rent.”
He glared at Bradford as the boy launched into his previous explanation. He had it so well-rehearsed that he didn’t even have to pause to think up new ideas. Nick was impressed. The boy must have really wanted this house, and was willing to do anything—except work—to get it.
Sarah slowly put down the kitchen knife, eying Bradford warily. She wasn’t about to let her guard down, Nick could see that much.
“Mr. Donnelly, I cannot work in these conditions. I don’t even know who this young man is,” she said, pleading with him.
“Sarah, we don’t expect you to clean anything except the kitchen and living room today,” he explained. “You needn’t worry about your safety,” he added, casting another death glare at Bradford, who had sat back down and read his newspaper. “These folks wouldn’t dare try anything in someone else’s home.”
“It’s our home, too,” Bradford muttered, and Nick resisted the urge to smack his bowed head, the way his dad used to do to him if he had a smart mouth.
Sarah walked out of the kitchen, entering the living room. Nick followed her.
“Mr. Donnelly,” she glanced over his shoulder to make sure Bradford wasn’t following her. “I know that boy!”
Nick cocked his head, intrigued.
“You know him?”
Sarah nodded, eyes wide. “He was a friend of my son’s. He’s a drug dealer!” she whispered, stumbling over her words to get them out of her mouth.
“A drug dealer, eh?” Nick said, his voice equally as quiet. “That’s good to know, Sarah. Anything else you can tell me about him? We need him and his girlfriend and him out of our house, as I’m sure you can imagine.”
“Oh God, yes,” Sarah said, horrified. “Mrs. Donnelly must be a wreck—and the children!” she gasped.
“The kids are fine, they’re safe at Belinda’s house,” Nick whispered. “Sarah, what else do you know about him?”
“Only that he’s sold drugs to my son before. He threw my son under the bus in a drug case and he ended up having to serve time.”
“And Bradford?”
“Bradford isn’t his real name. It’s Peter, I think. Peter Brandt. He never got convicted. He’s so good at fooling police. That was in a different state, too. I have no idea why he’s here, doing
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