“I bet you’d rather be off with your friends than cleaning houses, huh?”

Brody shrugged. “That’s how it goes with a family business.” He put the quart of milk, the bottle of mango juice in the fridge, glanced at the paperback on the kitchen table.

His mood perked up some, because book.

“I know that one won the Pulitzer and all, but I liked Cannery Row better.”

“What?”

“That one’s a total bummer if you ask me. Mom likes East of Eden best, and it’s pretty good. But I still like Cannery Row.”

He just gave the boy a blank stare. “Good for you.”

Brody gave Bingley a long look. “My cousin got me into Virgil Flowers, and he’s way cool. I’m going to do Sandford’s whole series this summer.”

“I don’t watch much TV,” Bingley said as he took his laptop out to the front porch, and ended any sort of conversation.

Thinking it over, Brody put away the rest of the groceries he figured Bingley was too lazy to go buy himself at the market.

Knowing his job—and his mother—he loaded the breakfast dishes Bingley had been too lazy to put in the dishwasher. Then, following routine, he dumped the kitchen trash into the big plastic bag before he noticed Bingley hadn’t separated the recyclables into the second can.

With a strongly disapproving look aimed toward the front door, Brody did that job before carting the bag to the bedroom. His mother had already stripped the bed, loaded the sheets and bathroom towels into the laundry bag.

Brody started to speak, thought about open windows, and saved his comments.

He put the fresh sheets on the bed—something he’d rather do any day than clean somebody else’s bathroom.

Just gross, man.

He knew he wasn’t supposed to, but he eased the night table drawer open just a little. Condoms. Then the one on the other side of the bed. Nothing.

He did his job, emptying the other trash baskets, dusting off the furniture, putting the glass and plate beside the bed into the dishwasher.

He did both bedroom floors, though it didn’t look like the guy had stepped foot in the second bedroom, left the second bath for his mother to wipe down, and did the dusting, polishing in the living area.

In a rhythm, he went out to sweep the back patio, check the water in the pots while his mom dealt with the kitchen.

In under an hour, they hauled out the dirty linens, trash, recyclables. And Brody noted instead of writing anything, Bingley had Candy Crush going before he toggled quickly to his screen saver.

“All done. Enjoy your day.”

“You do the same,” Bingley told Emily. “It sure is a peaceful spot. Oh, I meant to say the grounds are really beautiful. You must have a bright green thumb.”

“I wish I did. You can credit Darby McCray and her crew from High Country Landscaping. We left you another marketing list, it’s on the board with your receipt from today. You just let us know if you need anything.”

“I’ll do that. If I get my quota in, I may try some kayaking this evening.”

“If you do, don’t forget your coupon for the rental. It’s in your welcome folder. Happy writing.”

Brody waited until they were in the truck, until his mother started the engine. “Writing, my butt.”

“Brody Michael Keller!”

“I’m serious, Mom. He was playing Candy Crush on his laptop.”

“Well, God, Brody, so he was taking a break, or distracting himself while we were cleaning.”

But Brody dug in. “If he’s a writer, how come he thinks Virgil Flowers is a TV series?”

“I … not everybody reads popular fiction, even writers.”

Brody just shook his head as Emily drove to the next bungalow on their list. “No way, Mom. Just no. He’s supposed to be an English teacher, right? Like in college. But when I said something about Cannery Row and East of Eden—he had The Grapes of Wrath on the table—he didn’t know what I was talking about.”

“Of course he did.”

“Uh-uh.” When Emily pulled up at the next bungalow, Brody swiveled in his seat, his face set, even mutinous. “He didn’t. And if he’s an English teacher and a writer, how come he’s only got one book in the whole cabin?”

“He probably uses a reader. He’s probably got a Kindle.”

“I didn’t see one. And he—he looked at your butt when you walked away to start the bedroom.”

“Oh my God! We’d better call your dad and have him arrested.”

“I didn’t like how he looked at it,” Brody mumbled, unamused. “I didn’t like him.”

“Brody, we don’t have to like every guest. We just have to give them good service. And that’s what we’re going to do for the Campbells right now. Four people, including two kids under ten, in this one. So expect more work.”

He had more to say, but since his mother didn’t get it, like at all, maybe his dad would.

He cleaned three bungalows with his mother—the Campbells’ was definitely the worst—then rode his bike into town. He went by the station house, then hesitated.

His dad would listen, he knew that. And most likely his dad would tell his mom. Then he’d get a lecture.

Maybe not his dad then—at least not yet—but it ought to be family, and somebody who understood about bad guys and liars.

Family, an adult, a lawyer. And one who’d put bad guys away.

He turned his bike around, rode to Zane’s office.

The building looked good, he thought. He hadn’t seen the stuff Clint Draper had put on it in person, but one of his friends had taken a picture, and he’d seen that.

He figured Clint Draper was one of the bad guys his dad and Silas and Zane dealt with. But now he was dead so they didn’t have to.

He left his bike out front, walked right in. Mrs. Carter looked up from her computer—he bet she wasn’t playing lame old Candy Crush.

“Well, hey, Brody.”

“Hey, Mrs. Carter.”

“You got legal trouble?”

He smiled because she’d expect it. “I don’t think so, but maybe I could talk to Zane about some stuff.”

“You’re in luck. He’s got a half hour before his next appointment. You go right on back.”

Gretchen, who he thought was really pretty—though he wouldn’t look at her butt the way that Bingley lowlife had looked at his mom’s—came in from the back with a thick file.

“Hi, Brody.”

“Hi. I’m going back to see Zane.”

“Great. How about you tell him I made those copies like he wanted?”

“Okay.”

He kept going, pausing at the door to Zane’s office, where Zane sat at his desk sort of frowning at his computer screen. Wouldn’t be a game up there either, Brody thought.

He rapped his knuckles on the doorjamb. “Hey, Zane?”

“Hey, Brody.”

No hesitation, Brody noted when Zane swiveled away from the screen. Some adults pretended to pay attention but they were still thinking about their other stuff.

His parents even did it sometimes unless you made them see it was important.

“I want to talk to you about something.”

“Sure, have a seat. Something you need?”