Chapter 12

As my feet moved forward, my head was constantly in motion, taking in all the massive homes, with their interesting architecture and manicured lawns, all clearly visible thanks to crazy amounts of accent lighting.

The way it looked, nobody in this neighborhood ever worried about the electric bill – or any other bill for that matter.

I saw very few cars, but that wasn't terribly surprising, considering that each and every home had a three-car garage at the bare minimum. But the cars I did see? Well, they probably cost more than the little house I was currently renting.

Heck, they probably cost more than the farmhouse I'd grown up in. As a kid, I'd been surrounded by acres of open fields. At the time, I'd barely realized that gated neighborhoods like this even existed.

Now, walking along the quiet street, I was overly aware, and I couldn’t help but wonder, were these people happy?

I thought of Zane Bennington. He wasn't happy. That much was obvious. But why not, when he had the world at his feet?

The guy wasn't just a prick. He was an idiot, too. He had to be.

As I strolled along, there was one house I was determined to avoid – his house, if it could be called that. No. To call Zane's place a house was like calling the Titanic a boat. I felt my lips curve into a slow, evil smile. If only I had a giant, portable iceberg.

Take that, Zane Bennington.

I'd been walking maybe fifteen minutes when I spotted a street sign that made me pause. The name of the street sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t seem to place it. Hoping to jog my memory, I said the name out loud. "Longwood."

And then it hit me. While I'd been hunkered down inside the catering van, I'd overheard Zane Bennington tell that Bob guy that he had to move out of his family home, which happened to be on what street?

Longwood. I was sure of it.

But was it the same Longwood? If so, it made no sense. Last night, Bob had summoned a driver to take Teddy home. But why would he do that if they lived within stumbling distance?

Suddenly curious, I turned and headed down Longwood, noting that the homes on this street were still amazing, even if they weren't nearly in the same league as Zane's.

But then again, none of them were.

I snuck a quick glance at my watch. Probably, it was time to turn around.

And yet, I didn't.

Instead, I came to a complete stop as I spotted something that made me frown. It was a giant moving truck, parked up against the curb, just a few houses ahead.

Racked by indecision, I turned to glance in the general direction of the guard shack. And, then I returned my gaze to the truck.

As I watched, a couple of big guys in brown uniforms emerged from somewhere beyond my sight, carrying an antique table across the front lawn. Together, they loaded the table onto the truck and then returned to the house. A minute later, they emerged again, carrying an antique armoire, and then, a Victorian fainting couch.

My heart sank. Someone was definitely moving, all right.

I tried to tell myself that it was probably someone else – someone entirely unconnected to Zane-the-Prick Bennington. And whoever that someone was, they were probably moving because they wanted to – not because some heartless bastard had kicked them to the curb.

That had to be it.

After all, Zane had given Bob until Monday to move, and it was, – oh, crap – Sunday night. I heard myself sigh. Who was I kidding? The way it looked, I was getting yet another first-hand glimpse of needless misery, thanks to you-know-who.

It was beyond depressing. And yet, like a fly to a big steaming pile of crap, I found myself moving closer, hoping against hope that I was wrong.

I wasn't.

Of course.

I knew this, because when I passed – working like crazy to keep my gaze straight ahead – I saw from the corner of my eye a man who looked sadly familiar. It was Robert or Bob What's-His-Name, the silver-haired gentleman who'd been so actively involved in the catering setup.

He was standing on the front lawn, wearing khaki pants and a dark sweater. He watched the movers in stoic silence as they loaded an ornate side table onto the truck.

Surrounding him were a stunning array of Victorian antiques. I knew, because my mom had a fondness for them, even if the very best pieces were well beyond her price range.

The way it looked, these antiques were headed to a new home.

Just like Bob.

It was depressing as hell, and yet, I tried to tell myself it could always be worse. At least nobody was sobbing out on the front lawn.

Turns out, I spoke too soon.

The house was on a cul-de-sac, which meant that I'd need to turn around and pass the same house yet again only a few minutes later, from the opposite side of the street. When I approached it the second time, Bob wasn't alone. Instead, he was standing with a waifish young woman, who looked to be around my own age, or possibly younger.

She wore a stylish red dress and had thick, dark hair, done up in some sort of fancy twist. She was leaning against Bob and crying her eyes out, not bothering to hide it. She pulled away only long enough to choke out, "But this is our house."

Who was she? His daughter? A trophy wife? Or something else?

Bob pulled her close and mumbled something that I couldn’t make out.

Whatever it was, it didn't make her happy. She stepped away to glare at him. "I don't want a better place," she yelled. "I want this place! You promised!"

Through the outburst, I kept my eyes straight ahead, pretending not to see or hear as I strode along the sidewalk. In truth, I was wishing that I hadn't witnessed any of this. Already, I'd had more than enough misery for one day.

But I had to face facts. More misery was definitely coming. After all, I still had to give the security guard his bad news.

I trudged onward, feeling guiltier with every step. Behind me, the woman's voice carried across the distance. "He's such an asshole!"

I heard myself gasp. I don't know why. It's not like I believed that rich people never cursed. It was just that, well, I didn't think they cursed on their front lawns like Jimmy the Shank – the crazy welder who lived three doors down from my current residence.

I kept my head down and kept on walking. The young woman's voice rang out again. "I hate him!"

Yeah, you and me both, sister.

On instinct, I picked up the pace. After all, there was nothing I could do, and I had my own bad news to deliver. As I moved, I snuck another quick glance at my watch. Damn it. The half-hour had been up five minutes ago.

I broke into a jog, and then into a run, practically sprinting, until I was within sight of the guard shack. And then, fearful of arriving sweaty and breathless, I deliberately slowed my pace.

Better late than disgusting, right?

I was still a good distance away, walking in the shadows of the trees, when the guard emerged from the shack, looking a little sweaty and breathless himself.

He tugged at his collar and looked around, as if searching for someone in particular.

Me?

That was my guess.

I was just about to call out to him when he abruptly turned and hurried back into the shack. He emerged a moment later with a buxom brunette in a skin-tight black dress.

Leading her by the hand, he hustled her toward the small parking area, where a cute little sports car was parked near my old beater. I tried to think. Had the car been there earlier?

Yes.

It had.

Definitely.

Not that I'd paid it much attention at the time.

Unsure what to do, I came to a complete stop. I watched as the guard gave the woman a lingering hug, complete with a whole lot of ass-grabbing – by him, not her.

In a totally perverse way, I was actually glad for the guy. If nothing else, his night wasn't all bad, which was more than I could say for myself.

And heck, given what I was about to tell him, he'd need all the cheering up he could get.

From the shadows, I watched the brunette climb into her car and shut the car door behind her. Soon, the car backed out of its parking space and turned – not toward the exit as I'd anticipated – but rather into the neighborhood.

A moment later, the car sped past me and kept on going. As for the guard, he returned to the shack, whistling a happy tune.

Weird.

Little did I know, things were about to get a whole lot weirder.