Heartbreak Bay (Stillhouse Lake) by Rachel Caine (books to read in your 20s female TXT) 📕

“Was the driver abducted, or do you think it was an accident, or what?”

“God knows,” I say. “The 911 call is suspicious, for sure. It’s creepy to listen to.”

“So Kez is asking for your help?”

I shrug and don’t answer, because right now I don’t know how much more involvement I’ll have. He sits down to tie his boots. “What’s your day like?” I ask him.

“Eight thirty private lesson. The guy’s pretty steady, shouldn’t be eventful. This afternoon, sessions in the simulator for the A-320.” The simulators, I know, are stressful, but he enjoys them most of the time. The stress comes from the fact that every single sim he does is going in his record, and affects his ability to make the leap to where he wants to be. But I know how steady he is, and how good. He’ll be okay.

I think about telling him about the new and dangerous troll, but to be honest, I don’t want that to poison his whole day; better to talk tonight, once we’re home and relaxed and everything is quiet.

I head for the kitchen. It’s my day for breakfast, and I make eggs and bacon and toast; Sam eats fast and heads out. The kids are a shambles, as usual, but I get them up and dressed, and make sure they have enough food and juice in front of them to give them strength to face their school day. They keep the sniping to a minimum, thankfully.

They haven’t managed to finish before the doorbell rings, and I have to take the alarm off to admit Vera Crockett. She’s wearing pajamas and ridiculously oversize house shoes and God only knows how she got here, because our house is five blocks from her small, cheap apartment. Walked, probably. Vee doesn’t give a crap what people think. She’s always had that dark, defiant streak since I first met her in Wolfhunter as a girl wrongly accused of her own mother’s murder, and it’s only grown wider as she has matured. She’s almost an adult now.

One who wears battered, enormous yeti house shoes out in public.

“Breakfast?” I ask her, and she yawns and nods. She’s still wearing the ghost of last night’s party glitter. Lanny, at least, has washed hers fully off. “You’re lucky there’s any left.”

“I ain’t picky,” she says, and winks at Lanny. “Anything’s good.”

“Tell me you didn’t walk all that way dressed like that,” Lanny says as Vee pulls up Sam’s empty chair and I get her a fresh plate. Lanny looks genuinely worried, but Vee doesn’t answer, just digs into her eggs and bacon like a starving wolf. The girl’s got manners, somewhere, but she doesn’t usually bother with them. And in truth there’s something satisfying about seeing someone so completely in the moment, every moment. Doesn’t mean I don’t worry about her, and her influence on my daughter.

“Hey, Ms. P,” Vee says. “You got any ketchup for these eggs?”

I provide it and try not to shudder. “Vee, what are you doing today?”

“Nothin’.” She pops ketchup-soaked eggs into her mouth. “Killin’ the patriarchy.”

“Killing it by not having a job,” Connor says. “Good one.”

“I got a job,” she says, not quite defensively. “Part time, anyway.”

If she does, it’s news to me. Vee’s record of jobs since being ruled independent is . . . spotty. We gave her the deposit on the apartment, and she’s on her own for rent, which luckily isn’t much; she seems to do okay. I’m not her mom, and I know her well enough to know she won’t welcome me pushing in and interrogating her. Instead, I observe. She doesn’t seem wired or high, which is good. I can’t stop her from doing what she’s going to do, but I have let her know how much I worry about it. And she’s actually listened. Changed from that wild, angry, occasionally chilling child I met in Wolfhunter, at least a little.

I accept progress, even when it’s in small steps.

“I got a letter,” she announces suddenly, and pulls it out of the pocket of her pajamas and slides it over to me. “Thought you ought to see it.”

“Actual paper letter,” I say. “Wow. Old school.”

“I guess.” There’s something solemn in Vee’s expression. I look at the envelope; Vee’s name and address are carefully written on the outside, no return address. I slip the thin copy paper out and unfold it.

Dear Vera Crockett,

Don’t be fooled. They aren’t who you think they are.

That’s it. Not surprisingly, it’s unsigned. And there’s no stamp on it. “This came to your apartment?”

“Yep. Bastard knows where I live, put it on that rusty clip thing at the door where they hang late-rent notices and stuff like that.”

“Who do you think he’s talking about?”

She rolls her eyes. “Do I got to spell it out for you? I ain’t got too many friends around here. Seems pretty plain to me.”

“You think it’s about us. Me and the kids.”

“’Course I do.”

I put the letter and envelope aside. They’re going in my files. I know this is a problem; how large a problem, I don’t yet know. “Vee, you knew this could happen; you come over here all the time, you hang out with Lanny. You’ve been in the news. Sooner or later, you were going to get a troll interested in you. The good news is, ninety-five percent of the time these people are cowards who’d never dare try anything. They feel big and brave threatening from a distance.” That’s all true. But this, I’m all too aware, wasn’t delivered from a distance. It was at her front door. “If you want me to take it to the police—” Though I know full well the Knoxville police will just dismiss it. There’s no threat even implied here, much less openly stated. Free speech applies.

“No!” She snaps it instantly, just as I thought she would. “I can handle it.” Vee has had far too much contact with the police in her life, and in Wolfhunter, the cops were as bad as the criminals, if