Chapter 12: The Counter

Lana drove the Corolla through two red lights, and I held the door handle the whole way.

Channel Seven's white van was right behind us.

The reporter had smelled blood, and she was not about to lose it.

The Gas-N-Go lot held a rusted pickup parked across two spaces.

Through the window, I could see my brother standing at the counter.

The girl on shift stood against the cigarette wall with her phone in her hand, and her face was the color of milk.

"Stay here," Lana said.

"No."

"It's my store."

"It's my brother."

We went in together.

The bell over the door rang, and the two men with Kyle turned around.

One was thick and bald with a lip ring.

The other was a skinny kid in a hoodie who was holding a tire iron against his leg.

"There he is," Kyle said. "The millionaire."

"Billionaire," I said. "Get out of her store."

"Where's the ticket?"

"What ticket?"

"Don't play dumb. Shelby saw the lottery news and did the math on the dates."

"You bought it Tuesday, and you won Wednesday."

"And this girl sold it to you."

He slammed his palm on the counter.

"Where is it?"

"It's in a vault," I said. "You'd need a bank and a lawyer to open it."

"Then call the bank and the lawyer, and wire me three million dollars right now."

"Or my friends are going to rearrange this place."

The skinny kid lifted the tire iron.

It took him two tries.

Then he swung it at the lottery machine, and the glass cracked, and the whole terminal went dark.

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