Page 241 of Five Brothers

This isn’t a coincidence.

I walk up to my brothers and sister, the noise from the truck fading away. “What did she do?”

They stare at me, Dallas and Trace glancing at each other, and I don’t know who knows what, but someone knows something.

“She traded her house,” Clay finally answers. “Garrett Ames will back off for five years.”

He’ll back off? He’s not standing in my way of getting roads or trying to take the land?

For five years?

I narrow my eyes. “And what am I supposed to do with five years?”

She shrugs a little. “Find a way to make the land more valuableto the government than whatever Garrett Ames would do with it,” she says. “She bought you time.”

It doesn’t make any sense. “He gave up a nine-figure deal for a house?”

“No.” But it’s Liv who answers this time. “Krisjen threatened to giveusthe house as an alternative. We could find a million things to do with it that would drive down property values in their neighborhood.”

The wheels in my head turn.Yes, we could. He would not want us owning property in St. Carmen.

“And Jerome Watson gets her,” Liv adds.

I gaze at the papers in my hand, crumpling the edges in my fist. “She doesn’t need to sell herself to him,” Clay says. “Her parents hid some of their assets in her name. She’s been liquidating. She’d never sell herself to him for money.”

I swallow the lump in my throat.

“But she’d do anything for you,” Trace murmurs to me.

It’s not meant as an accusation, but I feel the slice all the same.

I’ve wanted roads for these people my whole life. I’ve begged for it, but we’re not taking it like this. She doesn’t get to swoop in and save us. I save us.

I need to see her.

In minutes my family is back to their party, and I’m crossing the tracks again. The gate to her house is open, but I don’t question why. Speeding down her driveway, I spot a large truck in front of the house,Bayside Movingwritten on the side.

Clay wasn’t lying. She gave away the house.

The windows of the home are dark, and the truck is sealed shut for the night, but the ramp is down. They’re still loading furniture. There’s time to stop this.

I bang on the door over and over again.Come on.

There’s no answer. Where is she?

Where are the kids?

I knock again, but there’s no answer. No one’s here.

I take out my phone and dial one of the many numbers I vowed never to contact again.

“Hello?” Cara Conroy answers.

I walk back to my truck. “Are you in town?”

She hesitates, and she may have forgotten my number, but she knows my voice. “I’m not far. Why?”

“Two Locks,” I tell her. “One hour.”