Chapter 13: Wednesday

Camille called before I reached the porch steps.

I let it ring out.

She called again, and a third time, and then my phone buzzed with a text.

Whatever you think you have, Mom's heart can't take it. Name a number.

I read it standing in the wet grass in Waylon's boots.

A second text came in under it.

I put five thousand in your account for the basement. Call it a head start.

I opened my bank app.

A deposit sat there, waiting to clear, from Camille Larkham, with a note: Rent refund, love you.

Waylon had come up the bank behind me.

"What does she want?"

"To pay me for the basement."

"Is that what the money is?"

"It's what she calls it."

I declined the deposit with my thumb, and then I typed back to her.

Not for sale.

She didn't answer, which told me more than any answer would have.

Dad called at four on Wednesday, while I was out back of the diner dragging the grease bins to the curb.

The number was one I didn't know, and I almost didn't pick up.

"Sam? Are you alone?"

"I'm in the alley, Dad. With the grease."

"Good. That's a good place."

I leaned against the brick.

He sounded like he was standing in the garage with the door pulled down.

"I told you I'd explain," he said.

"You did."

"At the second exit, your mother said, 'Where's Samantha?' And Camille said you'd texted that you were taking the bus."

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