The Follower by Kate Doughty (ebook reader with built in dictionary TXT) 📕

kid?” Rudy asks as Amber paces around them, searching for the optimal angle. “Another boy died—that’s what Cece’s friends said, right? Do you think they could be connected? I mean, one family tragedy is coincidence, but two? And now—”

“Not funny,” Cecily says. “Look, I know you like playing investigator, but if you stir anything up Mom’s going to murder you. That is so not what we need right now.” She turns back to Amber. “Let’s just get this post over with—I need to practice makeup for the sponsored stuff.”

Amber shrugs and positions herself slightly above Rudy and Cecily. “Hey, it’s what Mom wants. Okay, now, point your toes, long legs, yes—sunglasses down, I’ve got to make sure the label is in—”

Rudy stretches out for optimal ab definition. He tries to get into the headspace to smolder, but somehow he can’t. He just feels so . . . tired of this. He can’t stop thinking about Mom shooting down his posts, how she’d rather have him posing for sex appeal than doing what he wants. Okay, he thinks. That’s not entirely fair. But still. Sometimes, it feels like all Mom—and some of their followers—thinks his only role on the account is to be a hot guy who occasionally investigates weird drama or builds things. And, if he is being honest with himself, that feeling had turned from a slight misgiving in the back of his mind to something that, well, bothers him. Something that keeps him from concentrating during photo shoots like these.

Sometimes, he just wants to be more.

Besides, this is such a boring shoot. Another stupid sunbathing shoot that says nothing except that he and Cecily work out to keep their image right for Insta. And then he spots a dilapidated door that has already been kicked to the curb by their dad. He gets up and yanks it over to them. “Here! This will make things more interesting. We can do Titanic style.”

“Ew, no. I don’t want tetanus,” Cecily says.

“Amber, you get in the picture then.”

Amber hesitates. She’s about to open her mouth when a car rolls into the driveway. A police car.

The three jolt upward.

The car crunches over the uneven dirt driveway and comes to a stop before the triplets. Two officers step out: a lanky Asian man with thick glasses and a short Caucasian woman with dark, curly hair. The man tips his hat at them and smiles. Lines crease his face; he has to be at least as old as their parents. “Hello there. I’m Sheriff Kevin Yang, and this is my deputy, Maureen Perry. Are your parents home?” The officers take in the Titanic photo shoot and sunbathing setup with stoic expressions, although Rudy thinks he can spot a flicker of confusion on the woman’s face.

Amber stows her phone in a pocket and introduces the three of them. “Our parents are right inside,” Rudy says, leading the officers onto the porch. None of them elaborate on the photo shoot. The moment Rudy and the officers enter the foyer, he regrets it, but it’s too late for the officers to unhear his parents’ argument.

“Blood, Robert!”

“You know how it would look if people—”

“Mom!” Rudy shouts, drowning them out. “The police are here.”

His parents go pin-drop silent. Rudy imagines his mom sweeping her messy hair into an elegant French twist and putting on her “nice family” face.

“Don’t judge too hard; we’re only just getting started,” Mr. Cole jokes, rounding the corner and shaking hands with the sheriff and his deputy. Mrs. Cole emerges from behind him. They look like the picture of domestic bliss, dressed in matching overalls still smudged with dove gray paint from their last home renovation. Mrs. Cole smiles, all bright and welcoming. If they hadn’t been shouting just moments before, the illusion would have been perfect.

They make quick introductions, and Mr. and Mrs. Cole launch right into an explanation of the break-in and vandalism. They’d left the paint up for the officers to see, and they hand over the remnants of Amber’s old laptop as evidence. The two officers take detailed photographs of the remnants of the turret’s paint and inspect the first floor. They find no signs of forced entry, despite Mrs. Cole’s constant reassurance that they definitely locked up. “Well,” Perry says, “with so much going on, perhaps you forgot to lock up after all.” Rudy watches a muscle in his mother’s jaw twitch at the suggestion of her negligence, but she doesn’t say anything. He takes note of the officers’ process—how scrupulous they are while gathering evidence, the way Perry is constantly photographing and Yang is always writing on his notepad, so no detail escapes. Calm. Collected. Meticulous. Assuring. Rudy takes mental notes. When he gathers clues about the Tremont deaths, he wants to be just as thorough.

Once they’re finally finished, Yang and Perry gather the Cole family in the kitchen. Officer Perry speaks first. “Mr. and Mrs. Cole, kids, we want you to know that we are taking your complaint very seriously. We will be taking the computer in as evidence and filing an official report. Vandalism, destruction of property, potential breaking and entering, and trespassing at the very least. That being said, I feel the need to inform you of a bit of history of this residence.”

Rudy sits up straighter. This is exactly what he’s been waiting for.

Yang coughs. His eyes shift from the parents to the kids, clearly uncomfortable. “Of course you’re aware of the house’s . . . history and all, but what you might not have thought too much about is how this house has been abandoned for the last ten years. It’s become a bit of a local legend, and a popular spot for squatters or teenagers looking to trespass. I’m sure you’ve seen what the local teens have done to some of the upstairs windows.”

Mrs. Cole nods. “Don’t worry, we’re replacing all the broken panes,” she says. “Does this mean you think that the vandalism . . .”

“Is likely just local teens seeing how far they can push your residence,”