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

in. Besides, I’m not a walking genealogy. What I will say is that the Tremont Street home has been there since the eighteen hundreds and would have grown to be a treasured piece of town history if you and your family hadn’t hollowed it out for rich yuppies.”

“We—”

“I’ve seen what you’ve done to the foyer on your Instagram,” he says, looking back down. But not before Rudy catches the angry scowl on his face. “Now, are you going to buy anything?”

“Er, no . . . thanks,” Rudy mumbles, wondering which part he’s thanking the guy for. The part where he insulted his family, or the part where he gave him exactly no useful information?

Rudy says goodbye to Bella and heads home. He’d love to stay out and just be away from the house awhile longer, but he’s already been gone for two hours and knows his mom is probably wondering where he is. When he arrives, Amber and his mom are hard at work detailing the kitchen backsplash.

“What can I do to help?” Rudy asks.

“Want to help me take out some tile?” Joseph asks, handing Rudy a pair of safety glasses.

Rudy nods and takes the goggles. He follows Joseph upstairs toward the second-floor bathroom.

“Can you tackle that section there?” Joseph asks, gesturing to a far wall. Rudy eyes the sledgehammer propped in the corner.

“Sure thing,” he replies. “I think a little hammering might do me some good.”

Rudy hefts the sledgehammer into his palm and swings it at hideous orange-yellow tiling that had to have been put up sometime in the seventies. It cracks, and he feels something in himself give. He swings harder and harder and harder, and suddenly he’s not thinking about the renovation—he’s thinking about Cecily.

Cecily, burning, crying, melting. The blood on the turret, the rabbit in the sink . . .

He doesn’t realize how hard he’s hitting until there’s a hand on his shoulder.

It’s Joseph. “Are you all right?”

Rudy shakes his head. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m sorry. I guess I went a little overboard.”

“It’s understandable,” Joseph says, setting his own sledgehammer down. He removes his safety goggles and gives Rudy a sympathetic smile that makes his guts twist. “If you need to hit hard, hit hard. It’s just tile.”

Rudy sees the stress lines around Joseph’s eyes, sees the signs of sleepless nights and overtime etched across his face. He’s been at the Tremont house around the clock ever since the crew had to leave. Rudy realizes that he’s been holding eye contact too long, so he breaks it and looks at the floor. He knows that Joseph could be the follower. He wants to be able to suspect Joseph but . . . he can’t.

So he just nods and gives the wall a few more hits, sending cracked tile to the floor. They pause for another break, panting from the exertion. Joseph leans against the doorway, glancing down the hallway and through Rudy’s open door. He spots the guitar.

“You play?”

Rudy nods. “Sometimes. I’m not good.”

Joseph gives him a smile. “Me neither.”

“You play?”

His smile widens. “When I was younger. My son and I started taking lessons together when he was in high school. It’s been a while since I’ve played anything, but I can probably still get out Romanza.”

Rudy leans against the wall. “Ever do any blues?”

Joseph shakes his head. “Not much. Mostly classical.”

“Well, if you ever want to jam . . . ,” Rudy offers before he realizes what he’s saying. He waits for the awkward excuses, the clumsy denial, but . . .

Joseph nods. “That would be nice. Maybe when the work is all done? Or on a lunch break.”

Rudy feels himself grin. He realizes how long it’s been since he smiled. “That would be great,” he says. “Let’s finish this up so we can jam.”

“Absolutely,” Joseph says. “We should probably get that toilet out of here then, huh? The sooner we can turn the water back on, the better.” He gestures toward the toilet, and Rudy walks over to the tank, taking off the cover.

He looks down at the piping and pauses. He sees something. He reaches in and his fingers brush a plastic bag that’s wedged inside the tank. He removes it. Inside the plastic bag is a small bottle of pills.

Rudy holds up the bag. Joseph darts over, barely getting out the words, “Maybe you should—” But Rudy is already opening the baggie and letting the bottle tumble into his palm.

Through decaying lettering on the bottle, he reads:

. . . Glenarm. Clozaril tablets.

One pill every twenty-four hours

as needed. Prescribed 10-01-96;

Exp 10-01-97.

Ninety-seven. The year of the Grable deaths. Rudy makes the connection immediately. Rudy squints at the bottle. He can’t make out any of the other lettering. He shakes the bottle; it’s full of pills.

“What are those?” Joseph asks.

“Old pills,” Rudy says. “Expired decades ago.”

“Here—let me dispose of them safely,” Joseph says. “And don’t worry—odd things turn up during demos all the time. I will say, I’ve found strange things in walls before, but never medication.”

“Do you know what it’s for? Clora . . . clozaril, I think.” Rudy asks, squinting back down at the label.

Joseph shakes his head. “No. And we need to make sure this is safely thrown out. It could be dangerous.”

Rudy nods but clutches the bottle tighter. Is he grasping at straws, or can this be another part of the Alex Grable investigation? “I’ll give it to my parents and have them dispose of it properly,” he says. When Joseph looks like he’s going to protest, Rudy smiles and adds, “Don’t worry, I’m not the kind of kid who would try to sell pills or anything like that!”

The tense look on Joseph’s face relaxes and he returns Rudy’s smile. “I know that, son.”

Rudy slips the bottle of pills into his back pocket and returns to work.

But the renovation is the last thing on his mind now.

After so many days of finding nothing, this could be a lead.

Or it could be nothing. There is only one way to find out.

As soon as they take a break, Rudy goes right to the internet,