The Family Plot Read Online Free Page A

it’s just not worth it, to her, or anybody else.”
    She shook her head. “I don’t believe that.”
    â€œWait until you see it in person,” he urged. “You might change your mind. For all we know, the foundation is shot, and the walls are full of termites and rats.”
    â€œYou want to change my mind about sleeping in this place? Keep talking.”
    â€œOh Dolly-girl, my Snow White child,” he teased her, like when she was small. There was a children’s book he used to read her about a little girl who got lost in the woods. Even these days, they knew it both by heart. “The rats will give you gifts, and the bugs will give you kisses. The bats will stand guard as you sleep, and the owls will keep watch from their tree.”
    She tried to muster a smile, and almost succeeded. “So it’s always been, and may it always be.”

 
    2
    B RAD FIDDLED WITH his phone, alternately pleading with—and bitching at—Siri. “Chatta noo ga,” he enunciated, trying so hard to rid the word of his Georgia accent that he formed a newer, more bizarre accent in its place. Siri didn’t recognize that one, either.
    â€œDon’t worry about it,” Dahlia told him from the driver’s seat. “It’s a straight shot on the interstate from here. We won’t need directions until we hit Saint Elmo, and I doubt the phone will be any good when it comes to finding this house. From the way Dad talked, its road isn’t really paved.”
    â€œThen how are we supposed to find it? Did he draw you a map, or something?”
    â€œYes,” she lied. Chuck had given her directions, but she wasn’t overly confident she could read them. His handwriting had never been any better than chicken scratch, so her real plan was to (a) take her best crack at translating them, and then probably (b) ask around once they hit the historic district. Somebody, somewhere, was bound to know the spot.
    Brad stuffed the phone away in his sweater pocket, put his feet up on the dash, then pulled them down again. He opened the glove box, and shut it again. He tapped his knuckle on the door’s built-in cupholder.
    â€œIf you’re going to fidget like that all the way to Lookout, you can ride in the back with our gear.”
    â€œSorry. I’m sorry. I’m just nervous. This is … this is weird, isn’t it?” He turned to her, eyeing her through spectacles that might’ve been for show. Bless his heart, he wasn’t dressed for demo. He was wearing khakis and a pullover, and a pair of Converse sneakers, as a nod toward some latent hipsterism he should’ve outgrown a decade ago. He was thirty, but he sure as hell seemed younger.
    â€œWhat do you mean, weird?”
    â€œSleeping in the house, while we’re breaking it down. That’s weird, right?”
    â€œI’ve done it before. It’s not that bad, and it saves a lot of money. So it’s definitely not weird.”
    He played with his watch. It was a nice one. Expensive, with a retro design. He had no business wearing it to a salvage site, but whatever—he’d learn the hard way. “We’re going to be there, like … a week . Does it always take a week?”
    â€œNo, but this is a big job and we’re short-staffed. Try to think of it as a week of on-the-job training.” She smiled grimly, and stared straight ahead at the road.
    â€œI can’t wait.”
    â€œTry not to sound so excited. Dad warned you, this gig isn’t indoor work with no heavy lifting, so a little manual labor shouldn’t come as a big surprise.”
    â€œI’m not surprised. I’m…”
    When he didn’t finish the thought, she flashed him a glance. “Disappointed? Your résumé says academia. So do your hands.”
    â€œIs that an insult?”
    â€œNo, and don’t take it like one. I always wanted a few letters behind my