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The text came in just after lunch. Marla: “Can’t make it tonight, Kat. Flight delayed. Chicago’s a mess. Raincheck. Make it worth the wait.” Katherine stared at the message, lips pursed, phone resting against her wine glass. Her robe slipped slightly off her shoulder, forgotten. All week, she’d been preparing Tommy — watching him, pushing
Bob Sumners had hired me to mow their lawn for twenty bucks a pop—good money for a kid whose only other option was bagging groceries at the Piggly Wiggly. The Summers’ place sat on a double lot at the end of our cul-de-sac, a sprawling ranch house with a kidney-shaped pool that glittered turquoise in
Lonnie was running hard on the beach, sweating bullets. It was late on the Saturday morning of Memorial Day weekend, and the sun was hot and the sky was high. Humid as hell, too. He was about halfway through his fourth mile, and in a few minutes he would be leaving the beach and getting