Blood to Dust(39)

“What’s gotten into you, Nate? You’re acting all weird. I think the coneflowers have enough water for the whole summer. Why don’t you move on to the next flowerbed?”

I drop my gaze to the hose and aim it like a gun at another defenseless flowerbed. “Just wondering who can afford those big-ass houses. Stan’s the owner of an accounting firm, but what do your other neighbors do for a living?”

What did you ask that for, you stupid f*ck? Now she’ll think I’m trying to milk her for data so I can break into their houses, when in reality, the only crime I’d like to commit is to feast on the * that belongs to the son of an English kingpin. But Mrs. H is always in the mood for humoring me. Her hand finds my back. She rubs it in circular movements as we both stare ahead at the sea of lavish mansions from her front porch.

“Well, let’s see. Those are the Simpsons. We play tennis with them every weekend. They’re old money,” she snorts. “Texan oil. Then the Cruz family, right over there.” Her index finger travels in the direction of another manor. “Lawyers. Best in the country. They can get you out of anything, if you can afford it. Easy-T over there is a rapper. The Greenspans own publishing houses in San Francisco, and the Browns are in real estate. And those,” she says and points to a Spanish colonial villa, boasting a lush tropical garden and iron gates, “are the Burlington-Smyths. Surprised the electricity is still running. The house belongs to Godfrey Archer now. An English lord or duke or. . . Ah, I have no idea who that man is, other than the fact that he’s my husband’s client. Shady business, either way.”

I give a small, indifferent nod. So that’s how Godfrey got me this job. Everything’s connected, calculated and intentional. “Howard Burlington-Smyth was the mayor of Manor Hill. But not anymore.”

My stomach knots just from hearing his name. My silence prompts her to continue.

“I don’t know the whole story—you know how it is, the more gated the community is, the deeper the secrets are buried—but word in Blackhawk Plaza is that the mother of the family is suffering from schizophrenia and has been MIA for the past decade. I always thought that Howard was a widower. Raising his two kids alone earned him some serious points when he ran for mayor. But this was before. . .” She trails off, her hand sliding lower, massaging the two ridges of my back.

“Before what?” I almost snap. She gives me a onceover before continuing slowly.

“Before the scandal. He was involved in a shady, under-the-desk deal gone wrong, and he had to sell his house to the English guy.”

Normally she could tell me that she was attacked by four grizzly bears on her way back from the tennis court and I’d shrug it off and not even offer her a Band-Aid. I look like I have a dog in this fight. Mrs. Hathaway’s gaze scrutinizes me, trying to peel away my layers of aloofness. After a stretched silence, she finally says, “Why are you interested in the Burlington-Smyths, Nate?”

“I ain’t. Just making small talk. Isn’t that what you rich people do?”

That seems to pacify her, and she sucks in a breath.

“So now the Burlington-Smyths live in a house that doesn’t belong to them, and Howard throws favors around to keep that expensive roof over his head. I think that’s what got him kicked out of his position in the first place. They say”—she drops her voice down to a whisper, despite the fact that we’re all alone in her colossal property—“he was involved in drug trafficking. Knows people at the border checkpoint. I personally don’t believe it. He seems like a decent man, then again,” she says with a shake of her head. “His daughter ran out of the state a few years ago and his son, Preston…no one’s seen him in years. So there’s no telling what goes on in that family.”

I rub the back of my neck, trying to peel away my reaction to her story. We barely know each other, but I guess I figured that Prescott lived the kind of charmed life I couldn’t even dream about, because I didn’t fully fathom life’s potential. Sheltered. Wealthy. Whole. I catch glimpses of this kind of life here and there. When I mow Mrs. H’s lawn and watch stick-thin women in sundresses walking their poodles, pushing flashy strollers. Cooing and drinking iced coffees and talking on the phone about their f*cking family vacations. Life’s a casual thing for them. They don’t even realize that one day, they’ll be dead. They know, but they don’t realize it. There’s a difference. Rich people think money can buy their way out of the darkness. They’re wrong. We come from darkness and go back to it when we’re done. Nobody lives forever, and everybody’s grave is equally as dark.

I know that, and surprisingly, Prescott knows that too.

All this time, Pea was like me. The shattered pieces of her broken family are hiding in piles upon f*cking piles of secrets and hearsay that have her whole neighborhood just dying to dig up the shards.

“Sucks to be a Burlington-Smyth,” I grunt. What the f*ck? I’m one step away from growing a f*cking vagina. So what if Prescott had a shitty life? I bet it’s still a lot less shitty than mine. Besides, I’ve already decided that I’m going to spare her life. No need to buy her f*cking flowers to make up for the awful men she had to deal with.

Mrs. H creeps closer, brushing my arm as her eyes drop down to my package, squeezed into rubber Speedos. My balls are sweating like they’re in a sauna. They’ve been tingling for Pea’s attention for days now. I wonder what it’d take to get her to suck on them.