Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 114793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
When nothing happened, I eased myself down onto a flat rock nearby, gripping the plate like it held the secrets of the universe. My eyes stayed fixed on the woods, alert and searching for even the slightest movement.
The underbrush rustled softly. Then, just beyond the ferns, something appeared. A small, twitching black nose poked out from beneath the greenery, sniffing the air with the kind of focus and precision you’d expect from someone holding a doctorate in Sardine Scent Detection.
“Steve?” I whispered. “That you?”
He crept out slowly and cautiously, his fur ruffled and paws light. He looked even scrappier, as if someone had dressed a bandit in an old bath mat and taught him parkour.
I tossed another chunk a little closer. Steve picked it up, turned it in his hands like he was considering the Yelp review, and then started chewing with these little smacking noises that were weirdly adorable.
More rustling followed, and a second raccoon appeared, then a third. They all paused, eyed me suspiciously, and then approached the sardine pieces like tiny gremlins at a buffet.
I didn’t move, I wasn’t about to get mauled for fish paste. But I did talk because, well, who else was I going to talk to?
“You guys have it easy,” I said softly. “You sleep in trees, steal from trash, and scream when scared. Honestly, on that one, same.”
Steve made a little huffing noise and continued chewing.
“I’m out here hiding from a guy who literally buries people under buildings. You’re just trying to survive the squirrel turf wars.”
One of them sneezed.
"I don’t want to die—especially not by raccoon or at the hands of some creepy corporate villain. And definitely not by something stupid, like slipping in the outhouse and being found three weeks later by a park ranger named Doug."
The littlest one waddled forward and plucked a piece off the plate without even looking at me. Bold.
“Does death ever sound appealing?” I mused. “I guess if it’s peaceful, like a nap you don’t wake up from. But the kind I’m trying to avoid? Not so much. I’d prefer to stay alive long enough to figure out what the hell I’m doing with my life.”
The raccoons kept eating, unfazed by my existential monologue. And honestly, that made them the best listeners I’d had in weeks.
I tossed the last piece and leaned back against the rock, letting the moment settle around me. The woods weren’t silent, they were alive. Birds, leaves, soft claws on dirt, everything was moving and surviving.
Including me. And that, for now, was enough.
Chapter Eleven
Webb
I'd told Gabby I was checking the traps, and that was technically true because I did check one on the way out. But mostly, I needed a signal and a quiet place to take Marcus’s call. He didn’t like sending texts when things got serious—which meant this was serious.
I walked a little past the creek, near the old fence line where the trees thinned out just enough to catch a bar or two and dialed his number. He picked up fast.
“You’re not gonna believe this,” Marcus said without preamble. “Matty tracked down Clayton Barris.”
I stopped walking. “The guy Maddox left in charge?”
“Yeah, he’s been keeping a low profile, but Matty’s contact in Tallahassee spotted him. He’s rattled, so something’s definitely going on.”
“What kind of something?”
“Looks like Maddox got spooked because he took off faster than expected. Word is that a federal audit's brewing. Someone dug into his city contracts, and it’s looking like the paperwork doesn’t hold up.”
I swore under my breath. “And Gabby’s files?”
“Probably the match that lit it. Barris might know more than that now. We don’t know how much he’s been involved, but he’s nervous. That might be bad, or it could be useful.”
That shifted everything. I thanked Marcus, promised to update him if we got any kind of contact from Barris, and ended the call.
When I turned back toward the cabin, I cut through the far side of the clearing, and that’s when I saw Gabby sitting on a flat rock at the edge of the tree line, holding a plate and whispering into the bushes like she was hosting a secret forest podcast.
Then came three raccoons, little masked troublemakers creeping from the undergrowth and waddling toward her like she was the trash-fish messiah. I stopped and just watched, wondering what she was going to do.
She tossed a piece of something shiny and smelly—sardines, by the look of it—and muttered, “You’re drinking shitty, pissy water, Steve. You’re better than this.”
I had no idea who Steve was, but I assumed it was the boldest raccoon currently slurping away like he’d paid for the buffet.
Gabby didn’t notice me at first. She was too focused on talking to them softly like they were old friends as she began telling them about not wanting to die. That evolved into her telling him about how she was being hunted and about not slipping in the outhouse and being found by a park ranger named Doug.