Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 80689 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80689 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
I surrender, dashing off into the hall.
As I head back through the manor, my mind goes wild as I speculate on Simon’s intentions. Why the hell would he have hired a man who looks so much like our deceased brother?
2
JONAS
The bedroom is bigger than I expected. Maybe twice as big as the primary bedroom in my aunt’s place.
I only brought enough luggage to get me through the week—that’s how long this job should take, I figure. Although, after meeting Ryan Hawthorne, I’m wondering if I underestimated the task ahead of me.
I FaceTime my aunt to let her know I arrived safely.
“What did they say you had to do?” Aunt Amy whispers.
“Some yard work.”
“Jonas Finley, I’ve lived long enough to know that no one tracks someone down so they can offer them ten grand to do some yard work.”
“Aunt Amy, if you saw this place, you might reconsider. When I was coming up the drive, it was like a palace…maybe only small compared to the Biltmore. There’s a fountain out front, a pool in the back. Just what’s cleared out from the woods has to be ten acres, with ponds and plenty of flower beds. I’ll send you photos when I get a chance. These guys are wealthy—like absurdly wealthy.”
As I explain how impressive the place is, Aunt Amy’s glare suggests she’s caught on that I’m evading her question.
“Still, they don’t need someone from Chicago for that. I’m sure there are plenty of qualified people there—even more qualified, who have actual experience with yard work. So tell me honestly, Jonas, why do they want you?”
Fuck. I knew she wouldn’t let me skirt around this that easily.
“I’m not supposed to say.”
She sighs. “Well, I guess that makes sense. Maybe it’s better if I don’t know anyway, but I don’t like it.”
“Is Charity there?”
“She is, but she’s resting. Do you mind if I get her to call you later?”
My sister’s still recovering from her last round of chemo, so this is expected. We chat a bit more before we say our goodbyes, and then I get right to what I’ve wanted to do since I got here. The man in the bow tie who’d scouted me never told me who my employer was, and even when I landed in Hartsfield-Jackson, I didn’t have an address. A driver took me to my destination, so until Simon Hawthorne introduced himself, I didn’t even know whom I’d be working for.
With that bit of info, an internet search takes me to the Hawthorne family’s Wikipedia page. At a quick glance, I can tell the family money came largely from oil. Very old money. Simon’s great-grandparents are referred to as tycoons and industrialists, and apparently, there’s some question about their involvement with the Soviet Union.
“Rich-people problems,” I mutter, part resentment, part envy.
I check the time, and it’s twelve thirty. Kace, the butler who escorted me to my room, said lunch would only be served until two, and I didn’t have time to eat breakfast before I had to be at the airport, so I venture down to the kitchen. If only I could remember where he said that was…
I retrace my steps—or so I thought—but before I know it, I’m all turned around, wandering through this maze of a house, reflecting on the circumstances that brought me here.
“Would you like to earn some money? How about enough to help you with all these bills you’ve accumulated?”
“As a sign of good faith, and to show you how serious we are, by the time you get home tonight, the lien on your aunt’s house will be gone.”
Maybe I should’ve told the man in the bow tie to fuck off. Although, I did do just that, and he proved he meant business when he called and got me to check my aunt’s mortgage account. Sure enough, it was done.
I’d been suspicious about what the job entailed. After all, what reason could the bow-tie man have for being so cryptic if it didn’t involve drugs or money laundering…something that could put me in prison for a long time if I got caught.
“Pack your bags. We’ll fly you to Georgia to our client. He’ll let you know what will be expected of you. You’ll have a chance to refuse, but you’ll have to hear it from him directly.”
Probably should have refused then.
I continue through the manor, admiring the artwork and the antique furnishings that fill the place, amused that most of this stuff is likely worth ten times as much as my car.
Still struggling to orient myself, I wish I’d gone to greater lengths to memorize the route the butler had taken me along. I’m tempted to call out for directions, but I’d rather figure it out on my own. It’s maybe fifteen minutes before I find myself downstairs, heading toward the middle of the house, I assume. An aroma hits me—something savory—and I head through a few doors before I enter a large area with polished cement floors and hanging pots and pans.