The Family Plot Read Online Free Page B

name, myself. But I only survived two years of college before giving up and coming home. I figured out I could learn more from the warehouse than a textbook, and it didn’t cost me thousands of dollars a semester. I got paid for my trouble, instead of going into debt.”
    She didn’t get paid enough to go back and finish. She left that part out.
    Brad put his feet back up on the dash. His shoes squeaked on the underside of the windshield as he pressed his toes against it. “Yeah,” he said sadly. “It’s a lot of money. And unlike us credentialed losers, you won’t be paying your student loans until social security kicks in.”
    â€œTrue. I ought to have them all killed off before I’m forty. But no one said anything about you being a loser.” Because she wondered, she bluntly asked, “Do you feel like a loser, working at Music City?”
    â€œNo,” he insisted quickly. “I’m grateful for the gig. Your dad gave me a chance, and I know I’m not the sort of guy he usually brings on board. But … honestly? This job is only tangential to my field—so I feel like I’ve gone a little … offtrack. I thought I was destined for tenure and a foxy grad assistant, not … not…”
    â€œPower tools and rust. I get it. You don’t have to explain yourself.”
    â€œI’m not the puss you guys think I am.”
    â€œNo one said you were a puss, either.”
    â€œNot to my face, so thanks for that.” He wiggled his toes some more, then realized what he was doing and stopped before Dahlia had to make him. “I know I’m not part of the tribe.”
    â€œYou’re not part of the family. Right now, that’s a point in your favor.” The last bit came out with a grumble.
    â€œYeah, what’s up with that, anyway? Chuck said you and Bobby grew up close, but you obviously hate each other now.”
    She took a deep breath that turned into a sigh. “It’s not … we don’t … we don’t hate each other. Exactly.”
    â€œWell, you’re awful pissed at him.” For a guy with a fistful of degrees, he sure sounded corn-fed when he put two syllables in “pissed.” Maybe he kept the accent out of pure defiance, a stalwart middle finger to the academic masses who looked down on it. Or maybe he couldn’t shake it, not for trying.
    â€œYou’re right about that. You want the short version?”
    â€œShort, long. Surprise me.”
    â€œOkay, then you can have the middle version: I got divorced this year. My ex-husband is Bobby’s best friend, and Bobby picked sides. It’s the same old bullshit as always. He’s always had this … knack  … for choosing the wrong company, and being a little too dumb to keep himself out of trouble.”
    â€œI know his wife’s in jail. Office gossip, you know.”
    â€œShe went away for identity theft and fraud charges,” Dahlia supplied. “Yeah, Gracie’s a piece of work. I never liked her, and Bobby finally divorced her about five years ago. He got the car, and she got Gabe, plus a fat stack of IOUs instead of child support. He was unemployed back then.”
    â€œBobby wasn’t working here?”
    â€œNah. He’s worked for us before, off and on—summers in high school, a job or two at a time when we needed a warm body and he needed beer money. But he’s only been on the payroll for a few months. Dad took pity on him when Gracie went up the creek, so I guess he came on board right before you did.”
    â€œDoes he do good work?”
    â€œHe knows how to do good work.”
    â€œA fine distinction.”
    â€œHeh.” She started to smile, but the other Music City Salvage truck darted into the passing lane. She saw it in the side mirror, and her brewing mirth evaporated. Bobby was talking in an animated fashion as he pressed the gas, pulling up