Page 65 of The Hitman’s Final Job

“Not my fault. Just the thought of you in that white lab coat gets me going, and then you come out of this big truck like you’re some kind of cowboy, and I’m done. I don’t even take the clothes off. They take themselves off.”

He laughs. “So I’m a geek and a cowboy?”

“In one sexy package.”

I shift my gaze to the moving landscape outside. The mountains in the distance and the farmland transition into the edge of town, and then I see the first clues of the festival.

Banners across the road, bales of straw and pumpkins everywhere.

Pine Ridge has grown on me, and I don’t know how I’m going to leave. I also don’t know when.

Which is its own problem.

Zuza has been pulling threads for days, every but one of them has gone cold. HelixGen seem to be focusing on other projects, and there’s no documentation or even a single email to indicate they’re interested in Pine Ridge. And Musgrove, who seemed like the obvious thread to pull, turned out to be the most unexpected dead end of all.

Richard Musgrove, former architect of the Pine Ridge acquisition attempt, the man I was certain was behind all this, sold his investments eight months ago, closed his accounts, and moved to a nudist commune in Florida.

When Zuza told me, I thought she was pulling my leg.

So Musgrove is out, and HelixGen seems to be a dead end too.

Which means I have nothing.

No lead. No suspect. No timeline. No idea when or if someone else is coming.

Not knowing is the worst part. I can manage a known threat. I’ve been managing that for ten years. It’s the unknown ones that make the back of my neck feel this tightness like something’s about to happen but I can’t put my finger on it.

“You look lost in thought,” Vaughn says as he parks the car.

I jump out and go around to meet him on the driver’s side. “Just admiring the town and the decorations. Is it always like this?”

“I’ve missed every festival since I moved here,” he says. “But growing up, there were festivals like this one. My parents used to take me every year. I’d forgotten how it feels as an outsider.”

The now-familiar Main Street of Pine Ridge is unrecognizable as we walk up. The storefronts are still there, but everything between them has been transformed. Stalls run the length of the street in both directions, bunting has been strung between the lamp posts in orange and gold and deep red, and the air is filled with the smell of food and woodsmoke and something sweet I can’t identify but intend to investigate.

People are everywhere. Locals and visitors. Somehow, I’m able to tell the difference. Ever since Vaughn told me to use his car, I’ve been coming into town to do the grocery shopping and get anything we’re not growing in the garden. I’ve gotten used to that particular trip taking far longer than it would in Atlanta, just because there’s always someone to say hi to or someone who asks about Vaughn.

Children with painted faces and dogs wearing small pumpkin costumes are running around, and at least three people are carrying gourds of various sizes.

“Silas!” I turn to the voice calling my name and find Tess behind a stand she’s sharing with Teresa Navarro. It’s a long table covered in baked goods. A hand-painted sign above it reads Bakes For Good: All Proceeds To Pine Ridge Pride Fund, and a line of people suggests the baked goods are more than worth the donation.

“You came,” she says, when she sees Vaughn.

“I don’t think I could have missed it this year,” he says.

She beams at him and hands me a slice of salted caramel apple cake.

“Oh my god, this is delicious,” I say between mouthfuls.

“Come back tomorrow morning and I’ll give you a taste of the special. We’re having a new one every day.”

“Come back tomorrow? Tess, at this rate, I’m moving in with you.”

“No, you’re not,” Vaughn says way too fast for someone who agreed to keep this thing between us a secret.

“Don’t worry, honey. He’s all yours,” she says.

Teresa waves at us in between serving people.