Show Me (Thomas Prescott 4) by Nick Pirog (warren buffett book recommendations .txt) 📕

It was a little after 9:00 a.m., and I had five missed texts. All from Bree.

I sat up with alarm. Something must have happened to one of the piglets. I scrolled through her texts and gave a sigh of relief. It was just a bunch of pictures. Harold and May in the bathtub. Harold and May rolling around in the mud. Harold and May asleep on one another. Harold and May eating waffles.

The last text, the one that woke me up, read: I started Harold and May an Instagram account. They already have 500 followers!!!

I laughed.

I texted back: How did they like the waffles?

She instantly replied: They loooooooooooved them!

Me: Chips off the old block!

I dressed, then knocked on the adjoining door. Wheeler opened it a moment later. She smiled meekly and said, “Good morning.” She was wrapped in a towel and her hair was wet.

“I’d say.”

I showed her the pictures Bree sent. She snickered, then said, “Oh, what a proud papa you must be.”

I beamed.

Wheeler finished getting ready and twenty minutes later, we zipped through the McDonald’s drive-through—Sausage and Egg McMuffin for me, Sausage and Egg Biscuit for Wheeler.

“How could this ever work?” I said, handing over her breakfast sandwich. “We’re like the Capulets and the Montagues.”

She found this amusing.

It took ten minutes to drive to where Lowry Barnes’ widow lived. I pulled onto a side street, continued for two blocks, then Wheeler said, “That’s it right there.”

It was a small, cookie-cutter, stucco house with a tiny lawn. The house next door was nearly identical, save for the large truck parked in the driveway.

I made a U-turn and parked on the opposite side of the street. I told Wheeler to hang tight and I jogged up to the house and rang the doorbell. It didn’t appear anyone was home, and I wasn’t surprised when no one came to the door. On my way back to the car, I took a minute to check out the large black truck in the neighbor’s driveway. It was facing away from the garage, which struck me as odd.

Back in the car, I asked Wheeler, “What kind of truck is that?”

She raised her eyebrows as if to say, “Really?”

“I’m not a truck guy,” I protested.

“A Ford Raptor.”

“What does one cost?”

“Fully loaded? Probably high fifties.”

“How old do you think that truck is?”

She gazed out the window, then pointed to the truck’s front grill and said, “They changed the grill on the newer models. I’d guess it’s three or four years old.” She glanced at me questioningly, “Why? You thinking about buying a truck?”

“I’m gonna have to if I want to fit in with all you rednecks.”

She gave me a quick slap on the leg, which led to some light kissing, then some heavy kissing. I was getting ready to round second when a blue Ford Focus pulled onto the street and Kim Harrison’s garage door began to lift.

Wheeler and I waited a long minute, then stepped from the car and started toward the house. It took Kim Harrison half a minute to open the front door. No doubt she was finishing up putting the frozen items in the freezer and she shouted, “I’m coming!” on two separate occasions.

When Kim did come to the door, the first thing I noticed was she was bone thin, which I attributed more to DNA than to anything illicit. She was medium height with her blond hair up in a bun.

I asked, “Are you Kim Barnes, widow of Lowry Barnes?”

I could see her contemplating lying. Her eyes moved to Wheeler, a spark of recognition flashing after a moment, and then she said, “Yes, I am.”

I glanced at Wheeler. Her jaw was set and her eyes narrowed. The abstract blame she felt toward Kim was palpable.

I nudged her with my arm.

Perhaps sensing the same tractor beams, Kim said, “I’m sorry about your father.”

It was only five simple words, but they could have been five million for the amount of power they held. Whatever hatred, blame, censure, or rebuke Wheeler felt dissipated.

Kim took a step forward and the two women embraced.

I was reminded Kim was also a victim. Not only did she lose her husband, she lost her town. I would need to keep this in my periphery when I interrogated her.

The two women wiped away tears, then Kim invited us inside.

“Just give me a moment while I finish up putting the groceries away,” she said, then instructed us to go to the living room.

Wheeler and I sat down on a tan sofa. The room was simple, void of any noticeable extravagances.

“You okay?” I asked Wheeler.

“Yeah,” she said, wiping away the last of the moisture from beneath her eyes. “I don’t know what came over me. The second I saw her, it was like I saw him. Saw Lowry.”

I nodded.

“I keep forgetting that she suffered even worse than me. She had to live with that guilt.”

“Yeah, I was thinking the same thing.”

“Promise me you’ll take it easy on her.”

“I promise.”

“Why did you just cross your legs before you said that?”

I didn’t have a chance to respond. Kim stepped down into the living room. “Would either of you like something to drink?”

Wheeler and I both declined.

Kim took a seat in the recliner opposite the couch. When she was comfortably seated, I asked, “Can I use your restroom?”

I used the restroom, then took a quick detour into the kitchen. Kim’s purse was on the kitchen counter, and I rummaged through it quickly, then returned to the small living room. The two women were mid-conversation.

“Where are your kids?” Wheeler asked.

“Summer camp.” Kim smiled. “Thank God.”

“Is it a day camp?” I asked, resuming my seat on the couch.

“No, three weeks. On one of the lakes about an hour from here. A bunch of the kids from the neighborhood go each year.” She took a breath, then said, “But I’m guessing you guys didn’t come all this way just to ask about my kids.”

I decided to be straight with her. “I’m a