Slow Twitch - Реинхардт Лиз (бесплатные серии книг .txt) 📗

  “Wren, where did it get that money?”

  Suddenly the moonlight doesn’t feel so romantic and the hush of the forest has distinctly sinister undertones. Where did all of this money come from?

  “I have no clue. What do you think?”

  Jonas looks around. “Someone must be out here.”

  “Shhh!” I shush him and glance around anticipating some mob of meth heads to jump out of the bushes or a guy in a sharkskin suit with a gunshot wound to fire a few rounds in our direction. “Whoever lost that money is not someone we want to get involved with.”

  “You don’t know that.” Jonas refuses to whisper. “There could be a logical explanation for this money being here.”

  “Like?”

  “Someone could have dropped it while they were…hiking.” The last word pulls long and weak like warm taffy.

  “Hikers? You think a hikerwas carrying a small fortune in cash wrapped with a rubber band?” I hiss. “Let’s leave the money here and go. Now.”

  I let the wad of money hit the ground and stomp away without a glance back. But I’m not positive what direction I should head in. I followed Jonas blindly into the woods, and nothing looks familiar to me. Maybe I should have paid less attention to his big hands and chiseled jaw and looked for some damn landmarks.

  “Wren! Wait!” He crashes through the forest, making more noise than an elephant would. “You’re headed the wrong way! Let’s just look around, okay?”

  “Why? Don’t you understand that if we find the livingowner of this money, chances are they will hurt us? Badly! And if they’re not alive anymore, then they’re a corpse? I don’t want to get killed and I don’t want to find a dead body. Drop the money and let’s go!” By now I’ve forgotten that I’m supposed to be quiet, and I’m yelling. Whoever might be looking for us will be able to find us now. On the bright side, at least if they’re following my voice, they’ll realize that I don’t want to steal their money.

  But no one comes. The forest waits in silence. Clouds eclipse the moon, and I move closer to Jonas in the encompassing dark.

  He presses the solid roll of paper in my hand. “It’s for you, Wren. Take it.”

  I flex my fingers, squeeze tight and feel the edges of the paper bite into my palm. This isn’t play money. This could pay for a live-in nurse to stop by for Bestemor a few times a week. The dishwasher needs repair. The roof leaks in at least eight different places. Normally I try not to think about any of those things because I can’t help. What little money I make goes to groceries, gas, and a tiny bit of fun.

  I need this.

  I nod and Jonas takes my hand, grabs the keychain hanging from his belt loop and shines a beam of bright white light into the dark. After a few silent minutes of walking, we’re back at the truck. The fox is curled next to the tire, and I feel a glow of relief.

  “There it is.” I sigh and head towards it at a run. I’m so happy the fox is safe and sound, I drop my hand and bury my fingers in the silky layers of fur at its neck without a second thought for the tiny mouth armed with barbs of razor teeth.

  “Do you have AAA?” Jonas’s voice trips through my greeting.

  “No. Or maybe my grandma does. I don’t know. Why?” I follow his pointed finger and see a new tire leaning on the side of my truck.

  Jonas paces towards it, kicks it with the toe of his boot, leans over and squints, then narrows his eyes at me.

  “This is exactly the right tire for your truck.”

  One hand is deep in fox fur, one grasps the mysterious roll of money. My eyes strain in their sockets.

  “Leave it.” My voice shakes, and every hair on my body stands on end.

  Jonas picks it up and tosses it in the bed, then shoots me a warning look. “That spare is a piece of crap, Wren. I don’t care who left it or why, but you need it. I’ll change it when we get to my house.”

  “No!” I head to the bed, grab the tire with one hand and make a futile attempt to yank it out. I try again, then give up in disgust and head back to the driver’s side. “Fine, it can stay back there, but it’s not going on this truck. Okay? It’s not. Something freaky is going on, and I don’t want any trouble.”

  I pass the warm circle of fox across the seat and Jonas places it on his lap. I shrug his coat off and shove it at him. Nothing makes sense, and I’m unreasonably annoyed with Jonas and his calm, logical refusal to see the insanity of the situation.

  “At least put your coat on,” he says, watching me shiver stubbornly.

  “I told you, I don’t have a coat,” I snarl.

  “Then what’s on the back of the seat?”

  I crane my neck and my cheek brushes against rich, warm velvet. I swivel my head and see that it’s not just any black velvet; it’s the vintage black velvet coat with a pink satin lining that I saw on Etsy for a couple hundred more than I’d ever dare to spend on a coat. Especially when I owned a perfectly serviceable pea-green parka purchased during my unfortunate military-inspired phase last year.

  Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe this isn’t what I think?

  “Jonas, can you see the buttons on this coat?” I ask. They’re folded away from me.

  “Yeah.”

  “What do they look like?” My voice is a nervous squeak.

  “Little silver owls.”

  I drop my head on the steering wheel and shake for a few minutes. What the hell is going on?