The Arrangement Anthology 2(125)

Peter glazes over it, and leans back in the booth before he shakes his head. “Masterson wouldn’t take the risk.”

“You’re wrong there. He totally would.” My voice has grown soft and I have that spaced out look people get when they’re trying to find the square root of 3.

A moment of silence passes and a forkful of pancakes is dangling halfway between the plate and my mouth. Is there a connection somewhere? Did I miss it? Does Marty know Black? He couldn’t.

“Care to share?”

“Huh?” I drop my fork and it clatters on the plate, knocking the bits of breakfast loose. They fall on the table.

Peter smiles and leans forward. “You’re on to something and not telling me. Please tell me you’re not as stubborn as Sean.” I laugh without meaning to. “Fuck.”

“Yeah, I’m more stubborn than Sean. And something is bouncing around in my head, but it’s just a feeling. I can’t make a connection.”

Peter extends his hand, gesturing to me to share. “Lay it on me. Maybe we can make the connection together.”

“Marty and my former employer, what if they wanted to get back at me?”

Peter shifts in his seat and leans in close. With a low voice he asks, “The madam? Why would she want to get back at you through Sean?”

“I don’t know. She could have gone straight for me. There were enough times that she could have hurt me if she wanted to.” I’ve latched onto the right combination. I know it. I just can’t see how the whole mess fits together. “You’re right, Peter. Something’s wrong.” Flicking my eyes up to his, I ask, “What’s your mom saying?”

“Nothing. She’s acting like everything is fine, but it’s not because Aunt Lizzie is there. Mom never calls her, not unless there’s some serious stuff going down.”

“So, they know something.”

“I assume they have an idea, yes. The thing is, they won’t show their cards until their hand is played.”

“So, we’ll have to force them to tell us.”

Peter has an incredulous look on his face. “You can’t force Mother to do a damned thing. Where do you think Sean gets it? The plotting and scheming, the secrecy, it’s all part of our mother’s personality. When things get rough, she puts up a barricade and no one will get through.” Peter downs the rest of his orange juice and drops money on the table. “Come on.”

I jump up and follow him outside. When he pushes through the door a gust of wind catches it and nearly smacks me in the face. “Peter!”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to do that.” He holds the door for me and then walks next to me as we cross the parking lot to his car. “It’s just that Sean wouldn’t abandon any of us, and we both know something is off, so where would Masterson take him?”

I think for a moment, and then say the only place I can think of, “Captree, but the boat basin is going to be busy now. Marty liked to hang out down there in the winter when it was quiet.”

“Let’s try it anyway. It’s our only lead.” Peter opens a door for me and I slip into his car. It’s a little black coupe with an identity crisis—I can’t tell if it’s an old dude car or a sports car. It’s conflicted, like Peter. He can’t deny he’s a Ferro, but he doesn’t want to be a part of that family. I can tell. He rarely mentions Sidney and the two of them try to keep their distance, but something happens to the family and he’s there. Peter can’t leave them—and neither can I.





Chapter 11

It’s late by the time we make it to the docks. We’ve walked around for a while and asked people if anyone saw Sean down here, or Marty. That tactic isn’t working and it’s getting dark. “Peter, he’s not here. Marty wouldn’t choose a public place like this. I just couldn’t think of any other place he’d hide out.”

At the same time, we both glance up, and across the water to Oak Island and the rows of empty houses. “I bet he’s over there.”

“So, how do we find him?” Peter asks, leaning back against his car. The wind blows and lifts his dark hair off his face, revealing the same intense gaze Sean wears so often. “I don’t know any Girl Scouts selling cookies right now.”

I laugh at him. “Marty isn’t going to open the door for cookies. That’s something a five-year-old would do.”

“Well, I’d get caught pretty quickly then, assuming I ever go for the life of crime. I can’t live without cookies.” Peter sounds completely serious.

Smiling, I stare at the water, watching the setting sun glint off the surface. We’re quiet for a few moments before I ask, “Wait, what did you say?”