Before I went to sleep, I further decided to drive into Knoxville in search of a pawn shop as soon as dawn broke the next morning.

On my way into town I grabbed a doughnut and caffeine fix from Daisy’s Nut House, an early riser café for locals of Green Valley. The warm, jelly-filled pastry paired with her drip coffee did a bit to settle my uncommon nerves. Though I still felt cautious, so I decided not to search for a pawn shop using my iPhone or computer, deciding it was better to leave no computer trail of my activities…just in case.

Thankfully, I found a shop that looked promising called Discount Larry’s Gun and Pawn. Because these places always have surveillance cameras, I parked across the street, and pulled on my brother Roscoe’s Yankee’s baseball hat (something I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing) and non-descript blue hoodie.

I kept my head down as I entered and did a fast sweep of the merchandise, finding what I was searching for almost immediately. I paid in cash and left the shop quickly, having shared no words with the proprietor.

I jogged back to my car.  I then took the long road back to Green Valley, but stopped by Mr. Tanner’s junk yard on my way. It was there, down the tree-lined dirt road to one side of the junk yard, that I opened the old laptop I’d just purchased from the pawn shop, and watched the video.

What I saw made me want to murder my oldest brother.

And when Beau got home on Saturday, he could help me figure out how to hide Jethro’s body.

CHAPTER 8

“Men read maps better than women because only men can understand the concept of an inch equaling a hundred miles.”

? Roseanne Barr

~Jessica~

Nobody ever expects a Mustang convertible.

Especially not Duane Winston leaning against a dark blue Mustang convertible with a white top and racing stripe. The convertible had a white top and racing stripe, not Duane. He was wearing faded, bootcut blue jeans that fit nice and snug over his hips, and a charcoal colored thermal. As I approached—after I recovered from my surprise—I noticed the shirt’s color made his eyes appear almost gray.

He wasn’t smiling, but I did have all his focus, and Duane’s focus made me self-conscious and unsteady. Therefore, my smile was dreamy and reflexive.

“What are you doing here?” I gestured to the high school parking lot. It was Thursday afternoon and I’d just received a text message from my brother Jackson; he was on his way to pick me up so I was coming outside to wait.

Instead of answering my question, Duane leaned forward, placed his hand on my hip, and gave me a soft kiss that stole my breath and made every inch of my skin hot.

Then he leaned away, his hand falling back to his side, and answered simply, “I’m bringing you your car.”

My mouth fell open for obvious reasons and I blinked at him. “My…my car?”

“Yes.” He gave me just the faintest shadow of a grin. “Your car. You can keep it if you want, or you can give it back when you find something better.”

“What are you talking about?” My attention moved past him to the gorgeous vintage automobile. He’d backed it into a parking space at the front of the school. I didn’t know much about cars, but this car was beautiful.

“While we negotiate a price for your truck you need a car, for getting around, back and forth to work. Take this one for as long as you like.”

I struggled to form both words and thought; finally I managed, “Duane, first of all…whose car is this? I mean, who does it belong to? Won’t they miss it?”

“No. It’s one of mine. I hardly use it.” He reached for my hand and placed the keys in my palm.

“One of yours?”

“Yeah.”

I couldn’t stop blinking at him. “I can’t take your car.”

He shrugged. “Sure you can.”

“It’s a classic! I mean, I’m no expert on cars, but this isn’t a recent model. This must be over thirty years old.”

“About fifty years, actually. It’s a 1966 Mustang 289.”

Now I was blinking and shaking my head, and my thoughts were a breathy whisper when they slipped out, “You’re crazy.”

He finally smiled, though it was swift and gone almost as quickly as it had appeared. I made a mental note that Duane Winston liked it when I called him crazy.

“Take it for a test drive.” His hands were on me again, steering me to the driver’s side door. He opened it and gently pushed me inside, taking the bag from my shoulder and setting it on the floor behind my seat.

Meanwhile, I was greedily devouring the inside of the classic car with my eyes, unthinkingly slipping the keys into the ignition, pressing the clutch, and turning it on. It was…majestic. Something about the car almost felt alive, even sitting idle, humming beneath my fingers, anxious for the road.

Duane claimed the passenger seat and I glanced at him, finding his attention affixed to my face and a warmth there that made my heart race.

“What?” I narrowed eyes at him.

“Are you going to touch it or drive it?”

“Honestly? I haven’t made up my mind.” I stroked the steering wheel. It was covered in soft white leather. In fact, all the upholstery was white leather; the inside smelled like leather and Duane’s cologne. “I don’t think…I mean, I don’t know if I can.”

“Don’t you know how to drive a stick?”

“Yes. But that’s not what I meant.” I let go of the wheel and faced him, clasping my hands together on my lap so I wouldn’t reach for it again. “I mean, I don’t understand what’s going on. I should get a rental car in Knoxville until I find a replacement for the truck, something newer.”

“No. You shouldn’t.” He wasn’t smiling now. In fact, he looked frustrated. “That’d be a waste of money. This Mustang is a classic, yes. And, sure, it has over six hundred thousand miles on it. But I’ve rebuilt the engine and most of the other parts are new. It has new tires, brakes, suspension. It runs as good as a new car, I wouldn’t let you drive anything unsafe. You’re not going to have any problems with it, and it handles the mountain roads real well.”

I shook my head and reached for his hand, seeing he’d mistaken my meaning. “That’s not what I meant. I trust that this car handles like it looks—beautifully.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“The problem is this car is a classic. It is far too valuable for me to use as a loaner.”

“Then it’s not a loaner. I’m giving it to you. It’s yours.”

My mouth fell open again and a small sound of confused protest escaped. “Duane.”

“Jess.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am serious.” He looked serious.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because you need a car and I have four.” He shrugged.

“You could sell it. I’m sure it’s worth a bundle.”

“I can’t sell it because I just gave it to you.”

I gritted my teeth before hollering, “You can’t give me a car!”

He lifted his voice to match the volume of mine. “I just did!”

I stared at him, the stubborn set of his square jaw, the way his left eyebrow was slightly raised in challenge. He was so stubborn and irritating…and cute. And sweet. And thoughtful. And presumptuous.

“I’m not taking it,” I said finally, shaking my head. “It wouldn’t be right.”

“Quit being so stubborn.”

“Being rational isn’t being stubborn. You can’t just go around giving people cars. You’re not Oprah.”

Duane’s lips flattened in a way that made me think he was trying not to laugh because his eyes were shining. “What gave me away? Was it the red hair?”

Without thinking, and in a way reminiscent of our bickering childhood, I responded flatly, “No. It was the feel of your circumcised penis last week.”

Duane lost his battle with laughter and threw his head back, eliciting an unbidden smile from me. I exhaled a chuckle and rolled my eyes, feeling remarkably pleased I’d made him laugh. I think I was even blushing, which was strange. Making Duane Winston laugh flushed me with pleasure, or maybe it was the intoxicating sight of how much he seemed to enjoy it, enjoy being with me.

Still grinning widely—which in and of itself looked foreign and therefore dazzling on his face—he said, “But before last week, you still had doubts as to my identity?”

“Well, I’ve never seen you and Oprah in the same room together. Plus you both have your favorite things lists.” I was making reference to his statement last Friday, that arguing with me was one of his favorite things.

“Do you have a favorite things list?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” My neck was abruptly hot.

He lifted an eyebrow. “You’ve been thinking on my trouser department, haven’t you?”

Flustered, I shook my head. “Getting back to the topic at hand—”

“Is it? At hand? I wasn’t aware.”

“Duane Winston!” I tried to sound shocked and foreboding, but my involuntary answering smile was ruining the effect. “I’m attempting to be serious. Stop trying to muddle me.”