Juke snorted. “Honor among thieves.”
“Yeah, I guess, but Scott knows it’s probably me. Who else would it be? And he didn’t confront me last night, but the game is afoot. Trust me.”
Juke leaned back in his chair, the squeak making me wince, and tented his hands over his stomach. “Well, that will make it difficult. We’re going to have to be smarter than—what’s his name again?”
“Scott.”
“So tell me about Scott.”
I spent the next ten minutes going over everything I could think of that would help Juke—Scott’s personality, his friends, his habits, his job—and then I paid the retainer that Patrick Vitt had refunded me through Venmo minutes ago. Which made me wonder just how much my ass of a husband had paid him out on the street. After I finished, I rose and extended my hand.
Finally, Juke stood, and I saw that he, too, was tall like Griffin, but not nearly as muscled. Juke looked like someone had backed over him a few times, and his eyes looked haunted. I wondered about his story but not enough to pursue it. He took my hand. “I’ll do my best.”
“Thank you. I expect to hear from you in a few days.”
“May take a week or so.”
“The sooner the better. I have an attorney, and she’s proceeding with typing up the petition. She’ll file as soon as you get the proof we need. We want to strike first.”
He dropped my hand. “Okay, then.”
I started for the door.
“We’re not all bad, you know,” Juke said.
I looked back at him. “What?”
“Men. Not all of us are such dickheads. I’m not one of those guys. I can’t be bought.”
I gave him a small smile and a half shrug. “I hope not.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
RUBY
Ten days later
Gran was turning seventy-five years old on Monday, so I pretty much had to go to the huge birthday bash on the Saturday afternoon of Gritz and Glitz, even if it meant seeing my entire family, including my strung-out mother who was somehow still considered family. My mom pretty much existed on the painkillers and antianxiety meds she got from a pain management clinic. She’d slipped eight years ago on a piece of ice while waitressing at one of the casinos, which netted her a small fortune in a lawsuit and a resulting steady diet of pain pills. We didn’t talk much because we didn’t have much to say to one another. She had never been a good mother and wasn’t likely to change in the future. And lest anyone think I was a shitty daughter, I had tried time and again to connect with her with no result other than frustration that I had put myself out there and she hadn’t even bothered to open the door. My mom hadn’t even been pissed that my uncle, her former brother-in-law who she had always hated, had used me without my knowing and then got me locked up. In fact, my darling mommy had relayed to Gran that I was an idiot, and hadn’t bothered coming to my trial or sending me a single care package, even at Christmas or on my birthday. So let’s just say that I was cool with our official position to tolerate each other when we came into contact.
Gran, on the other hand, had been more of a mother to me than a grandmother. I had lived with her for most of my childhood since my parents were constantly splitting and getting booted out of their rental houses. Gran had baked me a graduation cake when I got my GED, sat beside me when I learned to drive, and glared at the prosecution at my trial. She was my greatest supporter and my chief confidante. I wasn’t missing her birthday celebration even if Ed Earl would be there.
When I arrived, I tried to wander up to the large congregation of people in the backyard of the farmhouse without anyone noticing me. Gran took great pride in the house on the outskirts of the small town, refusing any sort of junk left in her front yard and instead populating the expanse with daffodils, tulips, and iris, which danced in the afternoon breeze. Of course, this meant that many of my grandfather’s old heaps tic-tac-toed the backyard. Half-rusted livestock troughs held newly staked tomatoes, and Gran’s greenhouse was missing a panel. My uncle Jimbo, along with Ed Earl, manned the large grill off the patio, while the rest of the males clustered around souped-up pickups parked on the woods’ side, drinking beer and bragging about their hunting and fishing skills.
Most of the women in my family, including my gran and her sister, Jean, sat in a circle on the green lawn under the huge live oak. The matriarchs were sipping coffee and laughing like the two old hens they were. The younger women, including my mother, sat to the side drinking beer and wine. I crouched down next to my grandmother and kissed her weathered cheek. “Happy birthday, old yoman.”